


Amaranthine

by Rhiannon87



Series: Amaranthine [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Political Intrigue, Sexual Content, UST, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 138,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiannon87/pseuds/Rhiannon87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme. Leandra dies outside of Lothering. Garrett Hawke leads his siblings and Aveline Vallen to Kirkwall, only to be turned back at the gates when their uncle refuses to help them enter the city. They return to Ferelden and land in Amaranthine.</p><p>A year and change later, the Grey Wardens arrive at Vigil's Keep, intending to rebuild the arling and root out the last of the darkspawn plaguing the land. The new Warden-Commander conscripts Anders, an old friend from the Circle Tower, but as a mage and an elf, she needs some outside help in dealing with unhappy nobles. Lucky for her, Varel knows just the man to help...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to my lovely and dedicated beta, abhorsen327. <3

_7 Kingsway 9:30 Dragon_

Garrett Hawke had been an orphan for twenty-nine days.

It was a depressing thought, when he let himself linger on it, that he had left his mother's body in a darkspawn-infested valley outside Lothering twenty-nine days ago. There hadn't been time to bury her, so they said their prayers and ran, leaving her to rot beside the very creatures that had killed her. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for that; he doubted he ever would. But he had to keep what remained of his family alive. Alive and together. That was all that mattered.

Bethany and Carver were asleep, Bethany using her satchel as a pillow, Carver leaning against the wall of the ship's hold. Rascal was lying between them, keeping watch, ears flicking around at every creak of the hull. Almost unconsciously, Garrett pulled his coin purse from his belt and checked it again. A fistful of silver, Mother's locket, his parent's wedding rings, Flemeth's pendant. The last one felt cool to the touch no matter how long he held it in his hand. If he pressed it between his palms he could just barely feel the arcane energy contained within, the enchantment that the witch needed for...something.

“Stop that,” Aveline murmured beside him. “You're making us a target for thieves.”

Garrett glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Twenty-nine days since he'd met her, and he still wasn't sure what he thought of the woman. She was tough as nails, damned useful in a fight, and while she'd been married to a Templar she personally didn't seem to mind apostates much. But she also seemed to assume that she was in charge of their little group by virtue of being the oldest. That wasn't sitting well with him. Still, he obeyed and tied his purse back to his belt, half-tucking it into his armor to protect it from pickpockets.

On the deck above them, the crew began shouting. “Sounds like we're here,” Garrett said, leaning over to shake Bethany’s shoulder. She started awake, blinking, then sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Wake Carver, would you?” he asked, standing up to start gathering their few belongings: the clothes on their backs, the weapons and staves in their sheathes, and a trio of leather satchels.

They climbed the stairs to the deck with the other refugees. Garrett drew in a deep breath of fresh sea air as they approached the docks. “Well,” Aveline said. “There it is.”

Garrett nodded. “Amaranthine,” he said. A far more welcoming sight than Kirkwall-- fewer Templars and immense statues of weeping slaves and uncles who refused to take them in. No interest in beggars claiming to be kin, Gamlen had written, not even bothering to come out to the Gallows to see if perhaps they were telling the truth. Carver had nearly broken his hand punching the wall, Bethany had wept, and Garrett had gritted his teeth and booked them passage on the next ship leaving for Ferelden. Amaranthine was far enough north that the blight wouldn't have reached it yet. It wasn't safe, not by a long shot, but they'd let them past the docks. That was all Garrett could hope for now.

They piled off the ship with the other refugees, the ones who’d accepted that Kirkwall wouldn’t take them and returned to Ferelden. There weren’t many—Fereldans were stubborn, and most had refused to leave Kirkwall, assuming that the city would have to take them in eventually. Garrett had thought about staying, but he was tired and frustrated and wanted a place where they could catch their breath and perhaps finally grieve for everything they’d lost. The Gallows courtyard wasn’t that place.

“Where do we go now?” Bethany asked, looking around at the docks.

Carver shrugged and snorted. “Some rat-infested bolthole, I’d imagine.”

Garrett allowed himself a faint smirk. “Better infested with rats than darkspawn,” he said. “C’mon. Let’s see what we can find.”

He strode forward, taking the lead, and smiled to himself when Aveline fell in behind him. He had no idea what Amaranthine would offer them, but they were alive and together. That made the day a success.

*

 _11 Cloudreach 9:32 Dragon_

Anders had been an apostate for eighteen days. This time.

He heaved yet another melodramatic sigh, staring out through the bars of the cell they’d locked him in. Over the years, he’d become a bit of an expert on prison cells, having spent far too much time in one or another. And the dungeon at the Vigil was, to be honest, pretty terrible. There was no privacy whatsoever, with one wall made entirely of bars, although he preferred that to a solid cell. A narrow stone bench ran along the back wall, too thin to really sit on comfortably. Nothing to look at but his retinue of Templar guards—they’d sent _six_ this time, he was really quite flattered—and the flickering torches on the wall.

Anders flexed his fingers, shifting his wrists in the too-tight anti-magic cuffs. The blasted things were silverite, large enough to cover half his forearms. He was an expert on these, as well, but he’d never figured out how to slip them, despite ample opportunity for practice.

Four of the Templars abruptly departed, disappearing into the Keep, leaving two of the younger members of the Order behind. Anders perked up. This had promise. After all, he didn’t need to slip the cuffs if someone unlocked them. “Can you take these off?” he asked, holding up his manacled hands.

One of the Templars— Puppy, Anders had nicknamed him, from the way he ran around after the knight-lieutenant, drooling and yapping—looked over at him and frowned. “No.”

“Come on. They’re heavy. And they hurt.” He flapped his fingers at them sadly and pouted a little.

“Deal with it.” Anders had named the other Templar Biff. Mostly because he looked like the sort of man who'd be called Biff.

Anders sighed again. “It’s not like I’m going to cast anything, not when there’s two-to-six Templars about. Getting hit with one holy smite is bad enough, but six at once? No, no no no. I’d just like to be a _little_ more comfortable. If you don’t mind.”

“Maybe I do,” Biff snapped. Puppy looked a little less convinced. This had to be hard on him. They hadn’t completely destroyed his basic sense of decency yet, poor thing.

“What could I even cast that’s so dangerous?” he continued. “I’m a healer.”

“The knight-lieutenant said you’re a maleficar,” Puppy replied.

Anders shook his head. “I can’t stand the sight of blood!” he said. “Especially my own. That’s why I am, as I said, a _healer_. I like to make people _stop_ bleeding. Besides,” he continued, warming to the subject, “even if I were a blood mage, there’s nothing in here for me to cut myself on. So I would just be a hypothetical blood mage with all that blood kept in my veins, which is where it belongs, quite frankly. I mean, I suppose that if I were really determined I could bash my hand against the wall, but I’d probably just end up with a broken hand. Not to mention I suspect you fellows might notice if I started punching the masonry. And--”

“Sweet Andraste,” Biff interrupted. “If you keep this up I'm gonna add a gag in addition to the cuffs. Now shut it.”

Anders sighed. So much for that tactic. As he started contemplating his next move, the fortress rumbled slightly. “What was that?” Puppy asked, eyes wide.

“I dunno,” Biff muttered, fingers slowly wrapping around his sword. Another rumble, this one louder, and accompanied by screams. Biff had taken two steps towards the door when it banged inward and the rest of the Templars poured through. With the door flung wide, the screaming was louder, as were the sounds of armed combat and the thick stench of smoke. There was something else there, too, something that smelled foul and rotten and diseased. Anders pressed his back against the wall, eyes wide.

“Darkspawn!” the lieutenant shouted. There was a deep, bloody gash across his face and neck. Before anyone could react, the creatures came shrieking into the room, laying into the warriors with pockmarked weapons and razor-sharp claws. The Templars fought back, but there wasn’t enough room to maneuver in the small space.

The lieutenant wrenched something off his belt and threw it into the cell. The key landed at Anders's feet. “Help us!” the Templar shouted.

Anders crouched and picked it up. It took some inelegant maneuvering with the key held in his teeth, but he managed to get the cuffs unlocked. He dropped them to the ground with a relieved sigh, the suppressed mana flowing back through him. The Templars were flagging. Two of them were already on the ground, probably dead. Anders stepped back, palms pressed flat against the wall; the lieutenant stared in horror, jaw hanging open, before a darkspawn slammed into him and took him off his feet.

With a faint shudder, Anders squeezed his eyes shut. He was safe inside his cage, and he liked his chances better against the darkspawn than the Templars. The darkspawn were horrifying, true, but they couldn’t drain his mana, or put him in shackles, or burn out his brain. And if by some chance any Templars were left at the end of the fight, well, they’d be easier to evade when they were wounded and bleeding everywhere.

One of the Templars let out a wet gurgle as he hit the ground. Anders smiled tightly. He’d be free again. And this time, they wouldn’t take him back.


	2. Chapter One

_18 Cloudreach 9:32 Dragon_

Anders sipped his wine, eying the crowd over the rim of his glass, and contemplated how quickly his fortunes had changed.

Just a week ago, he’d been in chains, awaiting transport back to the Tower for execution, surrounded by very angry Templars—Templars who had been a little rougher than necessary in apprehending him, and even with magical healing, that gash on his ribs had scarred. And now? Now the Templars were dead and he was a Grey Warden, a member of the esteemed order that had just ended the Blight, recruited by an old friend he thought he’d never see again.

He glanced across the room at Neria. The mage looked tense, her smile painfully forced, as she spoke with one of the nobles who’d come to swear their allegiance to her. Anders was a bit surprised they’d all done so without protest—swearing fealty to a woman who was a mage _and_ an elf had to be difficult for most of them to swallow.

She looked up and noticed him staring. Her expression didn’t change much, the fake smile still firmly in place, but her eyes widened slightly in what they’d referred to as their ‘holy Maker kill me now’ look in the Tower. It was usually a sign that whatever enchanter had cornered them was in full-on lecture mode and they needed a rescue. Anders just tilted his glass towards her in a small toast and leaned against the wall. He’d save her eventually, but right now he was busy pondering the Maker’s mysterious ways.

Neria turned back to her conversation, one hand coming up to toy absently with her earring. Anders had teased her about it, accusing her of copying his style, and she’d _blushed_ , of all things. He and Neria had taken a similar approach to dealing with life in the Circle: have as much fun with as many people as you can, because what else are you going to do with your time? He had some fond memories of her and a particular storage closet on the seventh floor of the Tower. But apparently she’d _met_ someone on her adventures. Depending on who you believed, the ‘someone’ was either a smoldering-yet-sweet assassin from Antiva (her version) or an elf lady with no tits who tripped a lot (Oghren’s version).

Anders shifted his attention to his fellow Wardens, both of whom were lurking uncomfortably in the corner. Well, Nathaniel was lurking. Oghren was slumped against the wall, chugging something straight from the bottle. The three of them didn’t know each other all that well—Anders hadn’t yet been able to bear the stench long enough for proper conversation with Oghren yet, and Nathaniel seemed to have conceived an irrational dislike for him.

If he didn’t want people to make clever puns about his name, he should have changed it. Honestly, _Howe_ was Anders supposed to resist?

He chuckled to himself and took another sip of wine. “Ah, I’m so glad I appreciate me,” he murmured.

“…cannot be allowed,” a voice said, just at the edge of his hearing. Anders turned his head slightly in the direction of the sound; it was coming from one of the alcoves on the side of the room. He inched closer, head cocked to the side, listening.

“…must be dealt with,” another voice said. “Quickly, or else we…”

Anders couldn’t make out anything else, and he risked another step. “…only way to secure…” More murmuring; he scowled. Didn’t people consider the needs of eavesdroppers anymore these days? _So_ rude. “…all in agreement. She must be--” A hissing sound, like air drawn sharply through teeth, followed.

Well. That didn’t sound good. It didn’t take too many leaps of logic to guess what—or who—they were talking about. Anders casually wandered in Neria’s direction, weaving through the crowd with a polite, vacant smile that had served him well in the Tower, before finally sidling up next to her. “So sorry to interrupt,” he drawled, draping an arm around her shoulders and flashing a broad grin at the noblewoman Neria was speaking to, “but I just need to borrow her for a moment. Old friend, lots of catching up to do, you know how it is.” He started steering Neria away as he spoke, leaving the other woman looking quite confused.

“I remember your rescues being more subtle, Anders,” Neria said as they reached a quiet corner. She stepped away from him and arched an eyebrow.

He shrugged. “I know. But this is important.”

She frowned, straightening up to her full height (which was just barely chest-high on him) and narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I overheard some people talking…” He quickly explained what he'd heard.

Neria frowned. “Did you happen to see who they were? Faces?”

“No, sorry. They seemed to be going out of their way to remain unseen,” Anders replied with an apologetic shrug. He also hadn't been terribly interested in risking his neck by getting too close. That wouldn't have helped anyone.

She sighed. “That’s hardly definitive,” she said.

“I know. It sounded a lot more menacing in my head,” Anders agreed.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not worrying,” she continued. “It’s probably worth checking out. We’ll speak to Varel after the party.”

Anders glanced around at the collection of mildly bored or mildly drunk individuals. “Yes, it’s quite the shindig, isn’t it.”

She smirked. “Apparently I can end the gathering whenever I want,” she said. “Perk of being arlessa.”

“Oh, _please_ , my dear, I beg you: abuse that power.”

Neria drained her glass and set it on the low stone table beside them. “I’ll have Varel clear the hall,” she said. “Wait here, he’ll want to talk to you.”

“Oh,” Anders said, glancing sideways at the steely-eyed, grey-haired soldier grimly watching the proceedings. “Great.”

Fifteen minutes later, the last of the guests took their leave, hurried on their way by Varel’s calm yet somehow menacing demeanor. Neria grabbed him by the elbow and led him over to the seneschal. “Tell him what you told me,” she ordered.

Anders took a moment to wonder what part of her adventures had made her so _bossy_ , and then did as he was told. Varel listened, nodding once or twice, but didn’t speak until Anders was done. “And you take this as a sign of conspiracy against you?” he asked, looking at Neria.

She shrugged. “I’m an elf and a mage, and I killed the previous arl,” she said. “None of those things are going to make me very popular. _Someone_ is bound to be conspiring against me. I just need to find out who.”

Varel sighed. “Well, you have a few options,” he said. “I could dispatch some of our soldiers to gather information on the nobles, but they’re infantry, not spies. I’m not sure how effective they’d be. You could take the more Orlesian route of ‘inviting’ family members to stay at the Keep until the matter is sorted out.”

“As hostages,” Neria said.

“Exactly. That won’t earn you any good will, though.” Varel sighed. “Or there’s Hawk.”

Anders arched an eyebrow. “We’re asking a bird for advice?”

“A man by the name of Hawke, spelled with an ‘e’ on the end,” Varel clarified. “He’s been in Amaranthine for some time now. Sort of an information broker, the way I hear it, knows something about everyone.”

“And what’s the drawback there?” Neria asked.

Varel frowned. “His reputation is… mixed,” he said after a lengthy pause. “He’s not exactly discriminatory in his business associates—he’s reported to have worked with smugglers, pirates, anyone whose coin is good. I’m not sure how reliable he is, and I’m not sure he’s the sort of person you’d want to be associating with.”

Neria smirked. “I’m more or less married to an Antivan Crow,” she said, flicking her earring. “Scandalous reputations don’t concern me.”

Anders gaped at her use of the word ‘married.’ Varel and Neria ignored him. “It’s your decision, m’lady,” Varel said. “If you decide to work with this Hawke character, be cautious.”

“Of course,” she said. “Thank you, Varel.”

The seneschal bowed and strode off, leaving the Wardens standing in the front room. “Married?” Anders said after several long seconds.

Neria rolled her eyes. “Nathaniel! Oghren!” she called across the room. “We’ll be leaving for Amaranthine City early tomorrow morning. I want all three of you,” she traced a circle in the air with her finger, “to meet me at the gates at sunrise.”

Nathaniel nodded; Oghren belched. “Sunrise?” Anders whined. “That’s going to cut into my beauty sleep.”

“You’ll live,” she said with a smirk. “Off to bed with you.”

She strode out of the room. Anders sighed. “So much for my post-party plans,” he groused as soon as Nathaniel was within earshot.

“And what plans were those?” he asked, looking like he didn’t really want to know.

“Go see if the tavern’s open and find someone pretty to take me home,” he said. “Although I suppose those plans could be… adapted, slightly.” He raked Nathaniel with his eyes and grinned.

Nathaniel rolled his eyes and stalked off. Anders smiled and followed, humming cheerfully to himself. Even with the unholy wake-up times and the continued rejections, joining the Wardens was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

 _19 Cloudreach 9:32 Dragon_

Anders didn’t much care for horses, as a general rule, so he was quite relieved to find that they’d be walking to Amaranthine. It was a pleasant spring day, and the eight-hour trek had been rather enjoyable, exhaustion and borderline starvation aside. Neria had assured them that they’d get used to the increase in appetite eventually and handed out the extra sandwiches she’d packed for them.

They reached Amaranthine not long after midday. Nathaniel grudgingly provided directions to the Crown and Lion. “Are you sure this is wise, Commander?” he asked as they climbed the stairs out of the market district.

“Wiser than the other options available to me,” she said. “If Varel’s right, then I’ve worked with men like this before. His loyalty might be for sale, but once bought, he’ll stay bought.”

Anders practically cooed at her. “Look at you, all worldly and cynical!” He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “Seems like only yesterday you were just a wide-eyed apprentice, stealing dirty novels from me and making Templars uncomfortable.”

Neria chuckled. “Just the one Templar, as I recall.”

“Ah, yes. Poor Ser Cullen.” His voice dripped with disdain.

“He wasn’t that bad, Anders,” Neria said gently.

He rolled his eyes. “Speak for yourself.” Anders took a few long strides and pushed open the door, holding it open for his companions with a gallant bow.

The Crown and Lion was a charmingly typical Fereldan dive: rough hewn tables scattered around the room, a surly bartender pouring dirty mugs of ale, and a lingering scent of wet dog and beer in the air. Anders sighed happily. Once the night crowd rolled in, providing him with a wide selection of pretty people to seduce, it’d be everything he ran away for.

While he’d been admiring the scenery, Neria had gone to the bar, balancing on her toes to speak with the bartender. The dwarf grunted and pointed at a table tucked into a shadowy corner in the back of the room. Anders trotted after Neria as she headed over.

The table had been claimed by a dark-haired man in piecemeal armor—and claimed was the only word for it, with the way its occupant was sprawled out, legs spread, parchment scattered everywhere. There was some kind of weapon leaning against the wall behind him; as best Anders could tell, it looked like someone had bound a broadsword blade to the upper half of a mage’s staff. The man looked up as Neria’s group approached, revealing a handsome, surprisingly young face framed by a close-trimmed beard.

Neria came to a stop in front of the table and folded her arms. “Hawke?”

*

In his nineteen months in Amaranthine, Garrett had been approached by any number of people looking to hire his services. But the group standing in front of him had to be the strangest. A slight, red-headed elf in dark red platemail, an archer who looked bizarrely familiar, a dwarf with an axe almost twice his height strapped to his back, and a blonde, smirking mage. They looked like the setup to a bad joke.

“What can I do for you?” he drawled, sliding his papers into a pile to deter prying eyes.

“I understand you’re the man to see in Amaranthine if you need information,” the elf said.

Garrett grinned. “That I am,” he said. He’d had a bit of competition in the person of Dark Wolf, but they’d come to an agreement about who worked in Amaranthine, mostly by Garrett ruthlessly undercutting him and getting in good with certain members of the nobility. Wolf had taken his leave of the arling a few months ago, reportedly aiming for Highever.

The elf took another step forward and rested a hand on the table. “I am Arlessa Surana,” she said, voice low. “Is there anywhere private we could speak?”

He straightened up, looking over her group with a more critical eye. He’d heard about her, the Hero of Ferelden, their new arlessa—a mage and an elf, of all things—but the stories had been fairly vague on physical descriptions. Red hair, dragonbone plate… he glanced over her shoulder to see the hilt of a sword shimmering with magic. The sword that had killed the archdemon and ended the Blight, if the stories were to be believed. “It’s an honor to meet you, m’lady,” he said, shifting attitudes from cocky to charming. “I have a room upstairs, if that’d be more to your liking?”

She nodded. Garrett gathered his papers and his staff, smirking faintly when he noticed both mages eying the latter with ill-concealed curiosity. As he led them past the bar, he caught Garrif’s eye; the bartender nodded and tossed him a key. Garrett caught it one-handed and headed up the stairs, checking the room number on the tab as they went.

He unlocked the door and ushered the others inside. It was one of the larger suites, thankfully, with a desk and a couch. It was always a bit awkward when he had to conduct business with someone sitting on a bed. Garrett folded his papers and tucked them into his pocket, leaning against the mantelpiece as the others arranged themselves around the room. The archer took the desk chair, Surana and the mage both sat on the couch, and the dwarf leaned against the wall, placing himself between Garrett and the door.

“Well. I’m Garrett Hawke,” he began. “And I’m afraid some of you have me at a disadvantage. Would introductions be out of line?”

Surana shook her head. “Not at all,” she said. “I’m Neria Surana, as you know. This is Anders, a mage formerly of the Fereldan Circle,” Anders smiled and waggled his fingers at him, “Oghren, warrior of Orzammar, and--”

“Nathaniel Howe,” the archer said, just a hint of challenge in his voice.

That would explain why he looked familiar. There’d been images of his father around the city for months, before the former arl’s untimely demise. “A pleasure to meet you all,” Garrett said. He nodded at Nathaniel. “I won’t lie, ser, I’m a bit surprised to see you here, after the incident at the Keep.”

Nathaniel’s eyebrows shot up. “How do you know about that?” Surana asked.

Garrett shrugged. It took a lot of effort to keep from smiling; he did so love showing off his connections. “People talk,” he said. “I listen. It’s a living.” He refocused his attention on Surana. “What sort of information do you need?”

She laced her fingers together in front of her. “I believe that someone—or several someones—among Amaranthine’s nobility want me dead,” she said.

“That’s hardly a surprise,” he replied. “No offense intended, m’lady, but you’re not likely to win many friends around here.”

“I don’t need friends,” she said. “I just need people to not kill me.”

He grinned. “Practicality’s always a trait I’ve appreciated in a ruler,” he said. “Do you have any leads?”

Surana glanced at Anders, who shrugged. “At the arlessa’s court gathering last night—which I’m _sure_ you heard about,” he began with no small amount of sarcasm; Garrett smirked and nodded, “I overheard a group of guests talking.” He and Surana explained what they knew. It was paltry evidence at best, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. She might leave and take her coin with her. He couldn’t have that.

“If you can get me a list of everyone who was at the party, that would give me a place to start,” Garrett said when they’d finished.

Surana nodded. “I can have my seneschal send you a list in a few days.”

“Excellent.” Garrett clasped his hands together. “Now, I’m afraid we need to discuss the awkward subject of price.” Anders arched an eyebrow, while Surana just regarded him expectantly. “Considering that you’re asking me to investigate a number of the arling’s nobles, I’m going to have to ask for,” he hesitated for a split second before pulling a number from thin air, “thirty sovereigns.” It seemed like a decent place to start negotiations.

“Andraste’s flaming knickers,” Anders muttered. Nathaniel shifted in place, clearly trying to contain his surprise, and Oghren straightened up slightly.

Surana, on the other hand, simply pulled her coin purse off her belt and counted coins into her palm. “Ten now,” she said, holding out the pile of gold, “twenty when you bring me the information.”

Anders’s jaw dropped. Garrett couldn’t keep from smiling as he collected the money, silently counting it himself just to be sure. “My lady,” he said, slipping the money into one of the pouches at his waist, “I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

She gave him a brief smile and shrugged. “One can only hope,” she said mildly. “If I might ask you for one other piece of information...”

“Certainly,” Garrett replied. “Won't even charge.”

“Better not,” Anders muttered under his breath, still looking a bit stunned at the amount of coin being thrown around.

“There was a Grey Warden staying in Amaranthine, a man by the name of Kristoff,” she said. “Do you know anything about him?”

Garrett nodded. “He was staying here, in fact,” he said, frowning a bit as he thought. “Kept to himself, for the most part. He didn't care for me. I believe he thought I was nosy.”

Nathaniel snorted and rolled his eyes. “Shocking.”

“Oh, come now, Nathaniel, if anyone here is _nose_ -y...” Anders trailed off and winked at the other man. Nathaniel shot him a homicidal glare.

Surana cleared her throat and folded her arms. “Do you know where Kristoff is now?”

“Sorry, I don't. Haven't seen him for a while. You might have better luck talking to Garrif or Sorcha. They talked to him more than me.”

“Then that’s where we’ll start.” She stood abruptly; Anders and Nathaniel immediately followed suit, much to Garrett’s surprise. Neither man seemed especially disciplined, but they still followed her with… well, not military precision, but something akin to it. “Thank you, ser. We’ll be in touch.”

Garrett straightened up and gave her a respectful half-bow. “A pleasure working with you, m’lady.” He hesitated as they headed for the door. “Are you planning on seeing your sister while you’re in town, Ser Howe?” he asked as Nathaniel reached the threshold. He was showing off again, but he couldn’t help himself sometimes.

Nathaniel stopped abruptly. Anders almost plowed into him and jumped back with a startled yelp. Garrett managed to hold a straight face as the archer glowered at him. “Yes, I am,” he said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Clarifying that it _was_ his business, that was sort of the point, didn’t seem likely to earn him any favors with Nathaniel or Surana. Garrett just inclined his head politely; Nathaniel glared for a few seconds longer before he turned on his heel and stormed out.

Garrett waited until they’d disappeared down the hall before he crossed the room and shut the door. Ten sovereigns. He poured the coins back into his palm and grinned, running a finger over the small pile. The whole thirty would be enough that they could stop working for a year.

Not that they would, obviously. He’d buy the things they needed at home and a few of the things they wanted, but they’d keep working, saving up money and getting by on the rest. He returned the coins to his purse and tucked it inside his armor. Time to head home and share the good news.

He left the tavern quickly and without encountering Surana’s little group again. Garrett made his way through the market district and up the three flights of stairs to their small apartment. It sounded quiet enough, which meant the twins had to be in different rooms. He unlocked the door and strode inside, beaming from ear to ear. “Guess who I met today?” he asked.

Carver didn’t look up from the chunk of scrap wood he was whittling. “The Hero of Ferelden.”

Garrett’s shoulders slumped. “How’d you know?”

His brother’s head snapped up. “Wait, you actually met her? I was just—I heard she’d arrived at the Keep, but I didn’t think—you _met_ her!?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, his grin returning now that he knew his announcement hadn’t been upstaged. “More than just met her—she’s hired me. Us.”

“To do what?” Bethany asked as she emerged from the bedroom.

“Find out if some of Howe's old friends are trying to have her killed. And we'd best do it, too. I'd like to continue working for her.” Garrett tossed her the pouch of coins.

Bethany caught it easily and tugged it open to peer inside. “Blessed Andraste…” she breathed, eyes wide.

“And that’s just the advance,” he said. “We get twice that once the job’s done.”

Carver leaned back in his chair and snatched the bag from Bethany’s hands. His jaw dropped as he stared at the coins. “…this is a third?” he asked, voice faint with shock. Garrett nodded, grinning so hard his face was starting to hurt. “Well, what’re we waiting for?” Carver said, stabbing his knife into the table. Bethany winced. “Let’s find some assassins!”

He started towards the door; Garrett met him halfway and caught him in a chokehold, wrestling him around and ruffling his hair. “We’re waiting for her seneschal to send us a list of suspects,” he informed them while Carver flailed. “We’ll get started in a few _oof!_ ” He doubled over as Carver managed to land a successful punch to his stomach. Carver wrenched himself free and shoved Garrett back, scowling as he tugged his clothes straight.

Bethany didn’t even sigh or roll her eyes, instead electing to stare at them with a weary, long-suffering look that made Garrett feel like their mother had risen from the dead. “What shall we do in the meantime?” she asked.

Garrett shrugged and picked up the purse from the table. “Dinner?” he suggested, flipping a gold piece to Carver. “Whatever you want.”

Carver grinned and pocketed the coin. “We’re gonna eat like kings,” he declared. “I’ll be back in an hour!” He bounded out the door; Garrett could hear him thundering down the hall to the stairs.

Bethany pulled the knife out of the table and frowned at the newest gash left behind. “Thirty sovereigns,” she said, shaking her head. “We could buy a house with that kind of coin.”

“You could have your own room,” he said with a grin.

“That would be nice.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “You snore something awful.” Garrett pressed a hand to his chest and affected a wounded look. Bethany, having had some nineteen years to develop immunity to her older brother's charms, ignored him and cast an ice spell into the basin. “Want to help me with the dishes so Carver can cook when he gets back?” she asked, following up the ice with a quick burst of flame.

“Only if you heat up the water more. I don't know how you haven't gotten frostbite with that trick.”

*

It took considerable willpower for Anders to keep from skipping through the streets of Amaranthine. Investigating the missing Warden and talking with the local merchants about the caravan attacks had taken up the better part of the afternoon, and Nathaniel had advised against traipsing across the local countryside in the middle of the night. So Neria had gotten them rooms at a very nice inn. Their _own_ rooms, even. No bunking with the dwarf, much to Anders's delight. Neria had given them her blessing to go out and enjoy the city; Anders and Oghren had almost tripped over each other on their way out the door.

He stepped into the tavern and grinned as a wave of warmth and noise washed over him. The night crowd at the Crown and Lion was just what he was hoping for: tired, world-weary locals looking for something exotic to spice up their lives. Anders put a bit of swing in his step as he crossed the room, making note of the handful of appreciative stares that he earned with the display.

He ordered a pint of ale and leaned back against the bar, casually surveying the room. Neria had asked around about Hawke earlier in the day, but the staff hadn't been keen on talking. Much as he liked her, she just didn't have the same gift with people that Anders did. Hawke wasn't the only one who could get information in this town, after all.

The next hour passed in a pleasant, tipsy haze. Anders flirted and let people buy him drinks and inevitably guided the conversation back around to Hawke. He didn’t get much: Hawke and his family had turned up in Amaranthine just after the Blight began, they’d fought in militias against the darkspawn, and he apparently had a good friend in the city guard. No one really stuck around beyond a drink or two, for conversation or something more.

Anders was nursing his third ale and contemplating his next move when someone leaned against the bar beside him with affected nonchalance. “So, I hear you’re interested in Hawke,” the young man said, glancing at him sideways.

Anders glanced back. He was young, clean-shaven, with bright blue eyes and messy dark hair. Pretty cute, if you went for the burly soldier types—which Anders did, on occasion. “I might be,” he replied. “Unless you can convince me you’re the more interesting party.”

The man scowled briefly, rather ruining his otherwise attractive features, and shook his head. “You’re not my type,” he said. “But I’ve worked with Hawke before.”

“Really?” Anders turned to face him fully.

He nodded. “Fought together during the Blight,” he said. “We’ve stayed in touch since then. Let me tell you: he’s good. The whole family is. You want somebody found, they’ll find ‘em.” The man shook his head. “Trouble is, he knows how good he is. Kind of an arrogant prick, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, I sort of got that when I met him,” Anders agreed.

The man brightened. “Did he do that thing where he shows off everything he knows? I _hate_ it when he does that.”

Anders nodded. “And he charged an unholy amount for his services.”

“Oh, I’m sure whatever he asked for, it’ll be worth it,” the man replied. “Hawke’s--” He cut off abruptly, looking past Anders with wide eyes, as heavy footfalls came to a stop on his other side.

“Right behind me,” Anders said with a sigh.

“You know, all this asking after me, you sound downright obsessed,” Hawke said with a smirk as Anders turned to face him. A dark-haired young woman was standing beside him, looking somewhere between annoyed and amused.

Anders shrugged. “What can I say, you’re a hard man to forget,” he said, quickly raking Hawke with his eyes.

Hawke snorted. “If you’re the best Surana has in information gathering, it’s no wonder she hired me.”

“Maybe she just wanted more handsome mages around,” he replied. “I can’t carry that burden all on my own, you know.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned in, resting one elbow on the bar. “You might have the safety of the Wardens to protect you,” he said, voice low, “but not all of us are so lucky, so I’d appreciate it if you kept it down.”

“Ah, so you _are_ an apostate,” Anders replied, just as quiet, smirking. “Good to know.”

Hawke frowned and straightened up. “C’mon, Carver,” he said, glancing at the other man. “Let’s go.”

“I haven’t even finished my pint yet!”

Anders glanced back and forth between them. “Your friend…?” he started, feeling like he was missing a vital piece of information.

Hawke let out a bark of laughter. “My little brother, who was no doubt spreading lies and slander about me,” he said. “While we’re making introductions, this is my younger sister, Bethany. Carver’s twin.”

“Well, that makes much more sense,” Anders muttered.

Bethany sighed and held out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Anders,” she said. “Garrett told us a bit about you and the other Wardens. And I’m sorry for them being so… them.”

Anders grinned and took her hand, leaning down to brush a kiss to her knuckles rather than shaking it. “A pleasure, my dear,” he said with a wink. She smiled and blushed, which was exactly the reaction he'd been aiming for.

In retrospect, flirting with the young woman in front of both of her brothers wasn’t the wisest thing he’d ever done. “Let’s go,” Garrett said again, sounding much more grumpy the second time. “Long day tomorrow.”

Carver heaved a sigh and slammed his now-empty glass onto the bar. “All right, all right, fine,” he grumbled.

“See you around, Anders,” Bethany said.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said with his most charming smile. Garrett glared at him over the top of his sister’s head and led his siblings out of the tavern.

Anders sighed and surveyed the room. A pair of women at a nearby table stopped ogling him just a moment too late, and leaned in towards each other, giggling. He grinned. That certainly had promise. He grabbed his glass and sauntered over. “Is this seat taken?” he asked, gesturing at the empty chair.

“By you, hopefully,” one of them said.

Oh, yeah. It was definitely going to be a good night.

*

 _26 Cloudreach 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett bounded up the stairs to the guard barracks, coming to a stop in front of the guard at the door. “Is Aveline around?”

She glanced up at him and smiled. “That depends on whether or not your dog’s going to keep me company while you talk to her,” she said, holding out a hand to Rascal. The mabari sniffed at her, then headbutted her hand.

“I’m not sure it’s up to me,” Garrett replied as she stroked the dog’s back.

She laughed and tilted her head towards the door. “She’s about to head out on patrol. Check the armory.”

“Thanks.” He left Rascal to the guard’s affections and made his way through the barracks, nodding politely to the few guards her recognized. He leaned past the open armory door, rapping on the doorframe as he did so. “How’s my favorite guard today?”

“Perfectly fine until you showed up, Hawke,” Aveline replied without looking up from sharpening her blade. “What is it this time?”

He rolled his eyes and stepped inside. Aveline raised her head when he closed the door behind him. “Just looking for gossip,” he said. “Wondering if you’ve heard anything about people who might dislike the new arlessa.”

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “You know I don’t like it when you ask me for information like this,” she said.

“This is nothing illegal!” he promised. “In fact, it couldn’t get more legal. I’m working--”

“—for the arlessa, yes, I heard,” Aveline said. “Half the Crown saw you chatting with her the other day.”

“She thinks that someone wants her dead,” Garrett said. “Someone in the nobility, most likely, but for what I charged—well, I feel obligated to give her as full an accounting as I can.”

Aveline closed her eyes for a moment. “I’ve really only heard what the other guards are saying,” she began. “Most of the common people don’t know enough about her to pass judgment, other than bitch about having a ‘knife-ear’ running things.”

“So what are the guards saying?”

“Not much, until she stopped by the barracks a few days ago—probably the same day she met with you.” Aveline shrugged. “She spoke with the Captain, got a report on the status of the guard, the city’s defenses, things like that. She certainly seemed competent.”

Garrett waited for a moment. “But…?” he prompted.

She frowned. “Most of the guards aren’t happy about her,” she said. “She’s an elf, a mage, a Grey Warden, she assassinated the previous arl—any one of those elements might be troubling to some people, but put it all together and most everyone’s uneasy.”

“What do you think of her?”

“Like I said, she seems competent. Asked the right sort of questions, seemed genuinely concerned about keeping the city safe.” Aveline drummed her fingers on her armor. “It’s just… Wardens aren’t supposed to get involved in politics. It’s happened before and it’s ended badly. They place themselves outside the law, and when one of them is supposed to _be_ the law…” She shook her head. “I want to give her a chance, but I’m wary.”

Garrett nodded, gaze unfocused as he thought. “Anyone seem to harbor strong feelings about her?”

“There’re a few who’re more outspoken than the rest, but nothing that seemed suspicious,” she replied. “Aidan was impressed by her, and he’s cracked down on the worst of the talk.” She drew in a breath, like she was going to continue, then stopped, eying Garrett warily.

“Come on, out with it, Aveline,” he cajoled. “I promise I'll only use my powers for good.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” she replied. “Look, it’s probably nothing, but—maybe you ought to see Ser Tamra. She talked to Aidan about a week ago, something to do with the arlessa. Whatever it was, Aidan didn’t think it was worth diverting resources to. She was pretty angry when she left.”

He grinned. “Thank you so much,” he said.

Aveline shook her head again and stood. “Just don’t make me regret it, Hawke.”

“Oh! Before you go,” Garrett started, digging around in his belt pouch. “Here.” He held out three sovereigns.

“Hawke--”

“I promised I’d pay you back.”

She gave him a half-smile. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” he insisted. “We wouldn’t have gotten through the winter without your help, and I said I’d pay you back someday, so here I am. Paying you back.” Aveline didn’t move to take the gold; he stretched his hand out further. “C’mon, Aveline, you have to take it. Remove the burden of guilt from my soul and all that.”

With a sigh, she took the coins. “Only because it makes you feel better,” she said.

“Good enough for me.” Garrett grinned and pushed the door open. “You should come over for dinner tonight.”

She led him back into the barracks. “Carver’s cooking?”

“Mm-hm. I believe he promised roast chicken. But I need to let him know if you’re coming so he can make enough of those potatoes you love.”

Aveline smiled. “I’ll be there,” she said. “Want me to bring anything?”

“If you get those sticky buns from the baker on the west end, the twins will love you forever.”

“I’ll do that, then,” she said, coming to a stop beside a pair of guards who were idling against the wall, apparently waiting for her. “See you tonight, Hawke.”

He waved and continued on through the barracks. Rascal was waiting for him outside the door, tail wagging. “C’mon, boy,” he said, clicking his fingers at the dog. “Say goodbye to the nice guard.”

The guard laughed as Rascal licked her hand. “Good day to you, ser,” she called as they descended the stairs.

“Yep,” Garrett said under his breath. “Very good day.”

*

“Okay,” Anders announced. “It’s official. I hate the Deep Roads.”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “We heard you the first eighteen times,” he said, pulling an arrow out of a genlock corpse. He studied it for a moment, then returned it to his quiver, apparently finding it suitable for reuse.

Anders swallowed hard and looked down at the floor. It was a nice floor, well-made, stones interlocking snugly. Better to stare at the floor than look at the too-close walls or the too-low ceiling or the darkness lurking at the edge of their circle of torchlight, waiting to wrap around him, to swallow him whole, to drag him back there with the black and the cold and the rats and the two-hundred and ninety-four bricks in the north wall—

“Anders?” He jumped at Neria’s hand on his arm. She frowned up at him, and he swallowed again, trying to get his breathing back under control. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, which was strange, because he felt cold and it was taking a lot of effort not to shiver. “Are you all right?”

He dredged up a smile and nodded. “Oh, I’m just peachy,” he said. “Getting chewed on by giant spiders, hearing darkspawn sing in my head, stomping through caves that are dark and heavy and did I mention dark? What’s not to love?”

She didn’t believe him, not even a little, going by the confused frown and the flash of—Maker help him—pity that went through her eyes. “Are you going to be all right?” she asked, voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry to the others. “We’re still close to the Keep--”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, because he was a grown man and a mage and now a Grey Warden and he could handle this, dammit, and because the only thing worse than being in the small, dark caves was being in the small, dark caves by himself, and there was no way he was going to ask anyone to hold his hand and walk him back.

Neria still didn’t believe him, but she didn’t push the issue; she just squeezed his arm gently before walking away, returning to her place at the head of the group as they pushed on through the tunnels. He shifted his staff from hand to hand, wiping his sweaty palms on the front of his robes, and tried to focus on breathing. That was a nice distraction. Very basic and straightforward. Inhale, exhale, inhale, don’t think about the horrible, buzzing hum of the darkspawn inside his skull, exhale and don’t remember the black, the cold, the demons…

He stared at his boots as they walked forward, one after the other, so deep in concentration that he didn’t notice the hum turning into a slow, steady crescendo until it was too late. He straightened up in time to see the others turned towards him, weapons up, eyes wide. Neria shouted his name as he started to turn. Anders had a vague impression of grey skin and horns and _large_ before the ogre backhanded him out of the way, throwing him into the wall as it charged past.

His head cracked against the stone, and he dropped to the ground, dazed. He drew in a breath and whimpered at the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. Cracked ribs, cracked skull—he was the blighted healer and he couldn’t even stay on his feet for more than five seconds. Anders gritted his teeth and pressed a hand to his chest, pouring healing magic into himself. The pain receded enough for him to grab his staff and drag himself to his feet.

The ogre had Oghren in one fist, ignoring Neria and Nathaniel in favor of repeatedly punching the dwarf. Oghren was, by some miracle, not only conscious but clawing at the ogre’s fist, snarling and spitting curses. Anders cast another, more powerful healing spell on Oghren, then hit the ogre with a burst of lightning. It roared and dropped the dwarf; Oghren landed on his feet and immediately swung his axe into the ogre’s ankles.

Rivulets of black blood ran down the darkspawn’s chest as Nathaniel calmly fired arrow after arrow into it. Neria laid into the ogre with stone and ice spells, slashing at the creature with her blade between castings. Anders planted his staff on the ground, leaning on it for support, and focused on his companions, channeling magic through himself to give them an edge, dodging just a little faster and hitting just a little harder. Neria’s daily training was paying off: they’d all learned to fight as a team, each filling a specific role in her strategies.

Oghren reared back and swung his axe over his head, burying it in the ogre’s chest. It staggered and fell, the ground shaking with the impact, as it let out a wheezing final breath. Neria whirled around before the echoes of its death rattle had faded. “Are you all right?” she demanded.

Anders nodded. “Fine,” he rasped. “I’m fine.” He took a step towards them and stopped, flinching as something rippled across the Veil. A dark presence, the spirit they’d been chasing through half the tunnels—the ogre’s body twitched and clumsily began to rise.

Oghren spoke for all of them as the possessed corpse got to its feet. “You’ve gotta be sodding kidding me,” he muttered and spat a mouthful of blood to the floor.

Hours later, with the darkspawn sealed away and the demon defeated, Anders sat cross-legged on his bed and dragged a comb through his damp hair, grimacing every time he hit a knot. Human and darkspawn blood were both incredibly difficult to wash out, especially after having time to dry. He’d stayed in the bath long enough that Nathaniel had pounded on the door and demanded to know if he’d drowned.

At least he wasn’t sharing a bathroom with Oghren. Anders could only imagine the smells that such a room would contain.

He’d propped the window open and lit a few candles, filling the room with warm breezes and flickering light. He finished with his hair and tossed the comb towards his desk. It missed and landed on the rug; Anders shrugged. Close enough.

Someone rapped on the door. “Anders?” Neria called. “You decent?”

“Never,” he replied. “But come in.”

She slipped in and closed the door behind her, then spun the desk chair around to face him. “We need to talk,” she said as she sat down, and Anders fought the instinct to dive out the window.

“That doesn’t sound good,” he replied, trying to keep the tension out of his voice.

“What happened in the tunnels today?”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, I was—I was distracted. It won’t happen again.”

Neria frowned. “I’m not quite sure I believe you,” she said. “Anders, I’m worried about you as a friend, but I’m also responsible for the lives of everyone under my command. Today you were the only one who got hurt, and not badly, but I can’t have you putting other people at risk.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry to put it like that, but--”

“No, I get it.” He looked down, picking at a loose thread on his robes. “You’re right.” He swallowed hard and opened his mouth to speak, but the words were caught in his throat. If he told her, she’d pity him, think he was weak, a scared little boy afraid of the dark. If he told her, told anyone, then he’d remember, and he didn’t want to remember; not while he was awake, if he could help it.

“Anders, I need you to tell me what’s going on,” she said, sounding almost regretful that she had to say this. “If you tell me, we can deal with it, but if you don’t—if I don’t know what’s going on I won’t be able to rely on you. You understand?”

He nodded miserably. He wanted to crawl under the blankets and curl up into a ball and hide. Or dive out the window. That still sounded good. But they needed him. Everyone always needed a healer, especially people who made a living out of running headlong into danger. The ogre probably would have killed Oghren, if he hadn’t been there, not to mention the countless other injuries he'd healed just that day. They needed him; while part of him hated feeling trapped like that, he knew that if he just stayed behind in the infirmary every day he’d never forgive himself.

“After my last escape, they—the Templars, they locked me in solitary.” He swallowed hard. “For a year.”

Neria stared at him. “A year,” she repeated. “You escaped just before my Harrowing--”

“And you were gone when they brought me back,” he said. “I spent the entire Blight in a cell.” A small, dark cell, with rats and too few candles and the unabridged bloody Chant because the Templars were bastards like that.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide with horror, looking her age for once. They hadn't seen each other for so long, and she'd changed so much, that he forgot sometimes how young she really was. “Uldred’s rebellion,” she half-whispered. “You were…?”

He shuddered involuntarily. “Yeah.” Five days, or maybe six, without sleep, without food, only ice spells for water, fending off demons as they drifted through the walls. And when it was over Irving and Greagoir had made sure he hadn’t gone abomination and then left him there to rot for another nine months.

“Oh, Anders, I’m so sorry.” Neria reached out and squeezed his knee, and for a moment, the Warden-Commander disappeared, replaced by the quiet, loyal friend he’d had in the Tower. “If I’d known you were there, I would’ve done something, I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t have left you.”

“I know.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I guess the important part is that I, uh, I really don’t like small, dark spaces now.” Understatement of the age, right there.

Neria frowned. “Like the Deep Roads.”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

She sighed, fidgeting a bit. “I—Is there anything I can do?” she asked. “I wish I could tell you that I’d never take you down there, but you’re the healer. We need you. Especially in the Deep Roads.”

Anders shook his head. “I’ll be all right,” he said. “The longer I’m out here,” he waved a hand at the room, including the rest of the free world by extension, “the easier it gets.” It wasn’t a solution, not really, but there wasn’t anything else he could do. They needed a healer, they needed _him_ , so he’d have to get over it. No other choice.

“That’s good.” Neria squeezed his knee again, then stood up. “I’m going into Amaranthine with Woolsey tomorrow—let me know if there’s any supplies you need for the infirmary.”

“I will,” he said with a smile. “Thanks.”

She smiled back. “Night, Anders.”

“G’night, Nery.”

“Neria.”

“That’s what I said!” He concluded their age-old banter with a wink. She shook her head at him, chuckling as she closed the door behind her.

Anders heaved a sigh and flopped back onto the bed. It had been a long, long day, and he was drained in almost every way imaginable. He burrowed under the blankets, leaving the candles to light the room as he drifted off to sleep.

*

 _5 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

Being the proper Fereldan that he was, Garrett disliked horses on principle. They were too fast for his dog to keep pace with, they were often mean, and they all seemed distinctly Orlesian. But when one wanted to make the round trip between Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep in a day, there weren’t many options besides horseback.

It was a shame about the griffons, really. If they were still around, perhaps he could have had one of the Wardens pick him up and fly him to the Keep.

Garrett dismounted, wincing slightly, and nodded at the guard outside the gates. “Garrett Hawke. I'm here to see the arlessa,” he said. “She's expecting me.”

The woman sized him up and nodded. “Follow me, ser,” she said, gesturing sharply to one of the other guards as she walked. Someone scurried over to take responsibility for the horse; Garrett handed over the reins with a sigh of relief and followed the woman into the courtyard.

For all his work with Amaranthine's elite, he'd never been to Vigil's Keep before. Probably because the factions of the elite he dealt with hadn't exactly been on good terms with the previous owner. He looked around, committing the scene to memory. He knew that his siblings would interrogate him about it when he got home. The courtyard was bustling with activity: guards were patrolling the grounds, craftsmen were working to repair the buildings, and the blacksmith seemed to be having some kind of nervous breakdown, going by the wailing coming from the direction of the forge. Garrett sidestepped a cart full of timber and hurried after his guide.

The interior of the Keep was just as chaotic and twice as confusing-- Garrett gave up on tracking the hallways and staircases after a few minutes. “Sorry,” the guard apologized. “Normally you can get to the throne room more direct, but what the darkspawn didn't tear up, that fool dwarf's bombs did.”

“Bombs?”

She shook her head. “The less you know, the happier you’ll be,” she said.

Garrett had never really found that to be true, but he decided to let the matter lie for the moment. They rounded a corner and were abruptly facing a set of large, wooden double doors, flanked by two more guards. “Here you are, then,” she said. “He’s here to see the arlessa.”

One of the guards nodded and pushed the door open, bowing slightly as Garrett walked past. The great hall was wonderfully, typically Fereldan: sparse furnishings, a fire pit in the middle of the room, tall bookshelves and casks along the walls. Surana stood at the far end of the room, engaged in conversation with a grey-haired man in silverite armor. They both looked up as he approached.

“Hawke,” Surana said, nodding at him. “It’s good to see you again.”

“The honor’s all mine,” he replied.

The other man didn’t seem nearly so pleased to see him. “I am Seneschal Varel. We’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, arms folded over his chest. “I hope you’ve brought good news.” _Lest your head decorate a pike outside my door_ was merely implied.

“Well, I’m not sure that I’d call the names of would-be assassins _good_ news…”

“Why don’t we go up to my study?” Surana suggested. “Call me paranoid, but this seems like the sort of thing to discuss in private.”

Garrett gave her a thin smile. “It’s only paranoia if they’re not actually after you.”

Varel sighed. Surana glanced over at him. “I’ll come find you after I’m done talking with Hawke,” she said, a clear dismissal. Varel bowed and all but marched from the room.

Surana tilted her head at one of the side doors. “If you’ll follow me?”

Beyond the great hall, the fortress seemed undamaged, and their route to the third floor was much more direct. “Have a seat,” Surana said, ushering him into her study. It was largely empty, faint outlines on the walls indicating where paintings or shelves once hung. Garrett removed a packet of documents from his belt pouch and smoothed them out against the desk as Surana walked around to her chair. “What have you found?”

Garrett had never been in the military, but he was reasonably certain that she must have picked up the steel-eyed gaze from a career soldier. It was a little intimidating. “Not as much as I’d like, I’m afraid,” he said. “There seems to be a much broader conspiracy at work here, one that started before you even arrived in the arling.” He tapped the papers. “I found letters discussing plans to remove you from power, by any means necessary. Some of them are dated from within the week after Queen Anora formally named you arlessa.”

Surana pressed her lips together and nodded. “Where did you get the letters from?”

“Ser Tamra,” he replied. “She nabbed a pickpocket and found these on her. The thief said she'd been hired to take them from one hole in the city wall to another. All very cloak-and-dagger.”

“And you trust them?”

“I don’t think they’re forgeries, if that’s what you’re asking.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely over his stomach. “They were in code—Tamra had worked out enough to be concerned, but we had to figure out the rest.” Specifically, Bethany had spent a few days at the kitchen table with the letters and piles of crumpled parchment, unraveling the code by trial and error. “No names were used, just one-letter initials. But it does seem to include a fair number of people.”

She sighed. “Wonderful. Were you able to find any names?”

“Well, there are several people I suspect of involvement, though I can’t prove anything.” Garrett leaned forward and thumbed through the stack of papers. He drew out a sheet and passed it to Surana. “I can prove him, however.”

“Lord Guy.” Surana frowned. “How did you obtain this?”

“Bribes,” he replied with a shrug. “Based on the letters, I was fairly certain he’d hosted a few meetings of this conspiracy. I paid one of his servants to steal some of his papers.”

She looked back at the letter. “This is Loghain’s line of thinking,” she said. “Seeing Orlesian invaders in every shadow.”

“Whatever his reasons, m’lady, he wants you dead,” he said.

“He’ll be dealt with,” she said, setting the letter aside. “Is there anything else?”

Garrett sighed. “Unfortunately, no,” he said. “From what I’ve gathered, the people of Amaranthine aren’t exactly happy about having a regicidal elf mage Warden as their ruler--” Surana smirked at that, “—but there’s no general unrest or call for uprisings. Most people are just concerned with having enough to eat. The guard captain likes you, though, so he’s been doing his best to keep the peace. I wouldn’t worry about the general populace right now. It’s the nobility that’s the real threat.”

Surana laced her fingers together and stared at him for several long seconds. “I have a proposal for you,” she said. “Instead of paying you the twenty sovereigns, I hire you to work for me permanently.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m new to all this, Hawke,” Surana said, gesturing vaguely at the room. “New to the arling, new to being a ruler, new to the Wardens, relatively speaking. I managed to do a little investigation of my own—the guards speak quite highly of you, even with your mixed reputation—and I could use someone with your skills.”

Garrett made a faint noise of surprise. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “Anders did get some useful information after all.”

Surana smiled briefly. “Through luck more than skill, I’m sure,” she said. “I could get by on just Varel’s skills and connections, but I’d rather have you.”

“And… what would I be doing, exactly?” he asked, feeling a bit dazed.

“What you’re doing now, more or less, except you’d be working exclusively for me,” she said. “My spymaster, if you’d like an official title.”

The feeling of ‘a bit dazed’ had transformed into ‘completely flabbergasted.’ “I, uh, I’d be honored,” he managed to get out, hoping his shock wasn’t showing too clearly on his face. “How would this work? Would I make weekly reports, or--”

“You and your family can move to the Keep,” she said. “There’re houses meant for the officers in the courtyard, most of which are unoccupied. You can move into one of them. You’ll be paid a monthly stipend, as will your siblings, if they work with you.”

Garrett opened and closed his mouth a few times, struggling for words. He had the distinct impression she’d been planning this for some time. “When do I start?” he finally asked.

“As soon as you get settled in,” she said, rising. Garrett scrambled to his feet as she came around the desk. “Ask one of the guards to take you to Samuel, he’ll show you the house. We’ll discuss the specifics of your role after you’ve moved in.” She smiled at him and held out her hand. “I look forward to working with you, Hawke.”

He grinned back and shook her hand. “Likewise,” he said. “Thank you, m’lady.”

It was well after sunset by the time Garrett trudged up the final flight of stairs to the apartment. The sound of shrieking laughter and playful barks reached him as he unlocked the door. Bethany and Carver were doing the dishes—or, more accurately, Bethany was standing near a basin full of plates, flicking ice-cold water at her twin, while Rascal bounded around their feet. The dog bolted over to Garrett as soon as he stepped inside, knocking him back against the doorframe. “Oof! Down, boy,” he said, pushing on Rascal’s head.

“Hi, Garrett,” Bethany said, trying to look innocent.

“Did we get paid?” Carver asked.

Garrett dropped into his chair at the table and shook his head. “Nope.”

The room went suddenly, completely silent. Bethany’s jaw dropped. “What?” Carver asked, voice flat with shock.

“I didn’t get the twenty sovereigns,” he said. Maker, but he was enjoying this far too much. “I got a job and a house instead.”

Another long silence, this one somewhat more confused. “What?” Carver repeated.

“She hired me as her spymaster,” Garrett explained, finally letting the grin he’d been holding back spread across his face. “She wants us to move to a house in the Keep.”

“Holy Andraste,” Carver breathed, sinking into a chair. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

Bethany stared at him, hands pressed to her mouth. “Did you see the house?” Garrett nodded. “How many bedrooms?” she asked, with the kind of hopeful trepidation that could only come from sharing a room with one or both of her brothers her entire life.

Garrett held up three fingers. Bethany made a high-pitched squeaking noise and bounded over to him, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug. “When can we move in?” Carver asked, still looking stunned.

“As soon as we’re packed,” Garrett replied. Carver almost knocked his chair over in his bolt to the bedroom. “We’re not leaving _tonight_ ,” he clarified.

“What about tomorrow?” Carver called back.

Garrett looked at Bethany and sighed. “Can you use your magic twin powers to calm him down?”

“If I had such powers, don’t you think I’d have used them before now?”

He heaved a sigh. “Fair point.”

She glanced at the bedroom. “When _can_ we leave?”

“Day after tomorrow, probably,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We’ll have to pack, I’ll need to hire a cart to carry our stuff out there, need to talk to the landlord, Aveline…”

She beamed and kissed his forehead. “I’ll make sure everything gets packed up here,” she promised. “Don’t worry.” Garrett smiled at her; she patted his shoulder and headed off to the bedroom. Rascal padded over and laid his head on Garrett’s knee.

He stroked the dog absently, staring blankly at the wall. “I think I’m finally taking care of them properly, Mother,” he murmured. “Sorry it took so long.”

*

 _7 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

Anders had been a Grey Warden for almost a month now, and he still wasn’t used to how bloody hungry he was all the time. In the Tower, he'd been accustomed to skipping meals, studying in the library or crafting potions or helping out in the clinic. He’d tried that once since his Joining and nearly fainted.

He was among the first into the dining hall for dinner that evening-- Varel was the only other one at the Wardens' table. He gave the seneschal a polite nod and sat at the far end with his plate. He was halfway through his second roll when Neria walked in, trailed by Hawke and his siblings. Anders raised an eyebrow; he’d heard that she’d hired Hawke to be her pet spy, but he didn’t realize they were all moving into the Keep.

Neria led them over to the table and gestured at Varel. “Hawke, you’ve already met the seneschal, but--”

“Captain Varel!?” Carver cut in. He straightened up and half-raised his arm, looking like he was about to salute. “Ser, I—I can’t believe you made it!”

Varel looked confused for a moment, then his eyes widened. “Private Hawke,” he said. “I should have realized—it didn’t even occur to me that you might be kin. I’m glad to see you survived. Have you been in Amaranthine since the Blight?”

“Yes, ser, we came here after Lothering fell…” Anders tuned them out as Carver’s excited rambling turned to discussion of fighting darkspawn. He supposed that as a Warden he probably ought to care more, but… well, it wasn’t like he’d exactly volunteered for the organization. Perhaps the sense of selfless duty and sacrifice would come later.

Neria chuckled and gestured at the table. “Please, help yourselves,” she said. “You’re welcome here any time.”

“Thank you,” Bethany said, looking a bit shy. Anders watched, chewing thoughtfully on roll number three, as Hawke filled a plate with food and dropped it at his brother’s elbow. Carver didn’t even look up from his conversation with Varel, fumbling blindly for a slice of bread as he spoke.

Bethany and Hawke sat down across from him; Bethany flashed him a quick, polite smile. He grinned back. “Come here often?” Anders asked with a seductive grin.

Hawke rolled his eyes. “Surana invited us to join her for dinner, since we just moved into our house today,” he explained. “Haven’t exactly had time to buy anything at the market.”

“Ah, so you’re not actually in the Keep,” Anders said, nodding.

“I set them up in one of the officers’ houses in the courtyard,” Neria said as she sat down beside Bethany. The young woman looked a bit startled and stared down at her plate.

“So. A mage and a spy, huh?” Anders asked, redirecting his attention to Hawke. “You're a man of many talents, aren't you.”

“I’m a mage, too,” Bethany put in, sounding a little defensive. Hawke shot her a look; she glared at him, her shyness momentarily evaporating. “What? We’re at a table with two other free mages. If I can’t tell _them--_ ”

“You didn’t mention that when we were introduced,” Anders said.

Hawke glared at him. “You’d already announced that _I_ was a mage to half the room. I didn’t see a reason to let them know about Bethany, too.”

Neria arched an eyebrow. “It was not half the room,” Anders told her. “A quarter. At most. And it’s not like you were being exactly subtle, carrying around a staff.”

“Most people just think it’s a weird spear,” Hawke said. “Sticking a blade on things tends to confuse the issue.”

Neria rolled her eyes and deliberately turned her attention to the younger Hawke. “So, Bethany, what sort of magic do you focus on?”

“Oh!” Bethany fumbled with her fork. “Fire and ice, mostly.”

Neria perked up. “Primal magic’s my primary school. What spells have you learned?”

Bethany relaxed as she started talking about fireballs and ice storms. Hawke watched her with a small, half-smile on his face, poking idly at his food. Anders felt himself smiling back in spite of himself. “Two apostates in one family, huh?” he asked. “That must’ve been…” Fun? Exciting? Terrifying? “Something.”

“Three, actually,” Hawke replied. “Our father was a free mage, too.”

Anders raised his eyebrows. “Wow,” he said. “Were you ever in a Circle?”

“Father was, but he escaped after he met our mother—she was a noblewoman in Kirkwall, gave up everything to marry him,” Hawke said, eyes on his plate as he tore a roll into small chunks. “Beth and I have always been free, though.”

“Wow,” Anders said again, quieter. He forced down the surge of envy that threatened to choke him at Hawke’s matter-of-fact words. Hawke spoke like it was it was normal for apostates to marry and have children, for families to keep their mage children safe and loved. “How’d you avoid the Templars?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.

“Moving,” Hawke replied, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. “We’ve lived pretty much everywhere in Ferelden, save Denerim. I was born in Rainesfere, then, uh….”

“Redcliffe West Hill Highever Crow’s Point Dragon’s Peak South Reach Greenvale Gwaren Southhold Lothering,” Bethany rattled off all in one breath, momentarily rejoining their conversation.

Hawke jerked a thumb at his sister. “What she said,” he agreed around a mouthful of potato. He swallowed and shrugged. “Any time the Templars started getting suspicious, we’d move again. We eventually settled in Lothering. Stayed there until the Blight and ended up in Amaranthine.”

“Huh.” Anders shook his head, glancing down the table to Carver. A brother who didn’t care that his siblings were mages, a family that was willing to sacrifice so much just to stay together…

“What about you?” Hawke asked. “How’d you end up here? Surana said you were from the Fereldan Circle originally.”

Nathaniel’s sudden appearance at his side temporarily saved him from answering. “Hey, Nathaniel,” Anders said. “You remember Hawke, right?”

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes at the other man and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I didn’t realize Surana was moving more people into my family’s home.”

“They’re in one of the houses in the courtyard, so technically, she’s moving people onto your front lawn,” Anders pointed out with a cheerful smile. “Also technically, it’s not actually _your_ front lawn anymore.”

“Thank you for the reminder, mage,” Nathaniel bit out. The table shuddered slightly as Oghren dropped down on Nathaniel’s other side, bringing with him the smell of cheap, cheap beer.

Hawke gestured at Anders with his free hand. “You were going to explain how you got from the Circle to here?” he prompted.

“I escaped,” Anders replied with a shrug. “This was the seventh time I broke out, actually.”

Hawke raised his eyebrows. “So not very good at it, then.”

“Oh, I’m very good at escaping,” Anders said. “Unfortunately, I also seem to be very good at getting caught.”

“I was wondering about that,” Nathaniel said. “How _do_ the Templars always find you?”

He smirked. “Incredibly angry, that’s how they find me.”

“There must be some trick to it, surely,” Nathaniel pressed.

“They started recruiting women,” Anders replied lightly. “The male Templars never asked for directions.” Women like Rylock. Rotten bitch. He half-raised a hand to rub at the scar on his ribs, then dropped it back to the table.

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible to talk to.”

“I do my best!”

“Do you always wear robes?” Hawke asked, leaning forward to grab another roll from the basket in the middle of the table.

Oh, the opening was just too perfect. Anders gave him a roguish grin and an obvious once-over. “Not when I’m naked I don’t,” he purred.

Hawke seemed to be impervious to his charms. “I mean when you escaped from the Circle,” he elaborated. “They’d make you stand out, I think.”

“So does the big ‘I’m a mage!’ sign hanging around my neck,” Anders said, tracing a circle in front of his chest. “I like to make it easy on the Templars.”

Hawke blinked at him, then turned to stare blankly at Nathaniel, silently demanding an explanation. Nathaniel sighed. “Yes, he’s always like this.”

“Good to know,” Hawke muttered.

Anders rolled his eyes. “Honestly, have the two of you never heard of phylacteries? I mean, I guess I can excuse Nate here--”

“ _Nathaniel_ ,” the archer ground out.

“—but you’re a mage! Raised by a mage! Didn’t your father ever sit you down and explain that if a Templar comes at you with a glass vial and a knife, run?”

“He didn’t get that specific,” Hawke replied dryly. “The instructions were more ‘if a Templar comes at you, run.’”

“Ah.” Anders nodded. “That’s good advice too, I suppose.”

Oghren leaned forward and stabbed his fork in Hawke’s direction. “Yer a mage?” he asked.

Hawke glanced over at him. “Yes?”

“You wear pants?”

“Uh.” Hawke glanced down. “Yes.”

The fork swung around to point at Anders, nearly spearing Nathaniel in the arm in the process. “See?” Oghren said. “Man-skirt-wearing freak.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “I told you, _Circle_ mages wear robes. I can’t speak to what apostates wear.”

“Aren’t you an apostate now?” Nathaniel asked.

“Yes, but these have all sorts of useful enchantments on them,” he said, smoothing a hand down the silk over his chest. “Also, I like the feathers.”

“Birds,” Oghren muttered darkly. “Don’t trust ‘em. That golem knew what she was talking about.”

Hawke’s attention snapped back to Oghren. “Golem?” Anders leaned forward curiously. He’d read about golems, but he didn’t really know much about them. Like the fact that they could talk and express opinions on birds.

The dwarf grinned. “Oh, yeah. Commander picked up a sodding golem on her adventures. Let me tell you…”

*

 _9 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

Garrrett stood between Anders and Nathaniel, watching as Oghren chased Carver around the practice field. Carver had always favored speed over defense, preferring to be able to finish off an enemy quickly and avoid getting hit in the first place. He generally wore a mix of leathers and chain instead of the heavy plate most soldiers favored.

Given that Oghren was wearing said heavy plate and was at least two feet shorter, the fact that he had Carver on the run was pretty entertaining.

“So, what’s she hoping to get out of this?” Garrett asked, nodding in Surana’s direction. She stood several feet away from them, arms folded, her eyes tracking the combatants.

Nathaniel shrugged. “She wants to know where our skills lie,” he said. “Everyone’s got a role. She builds her strategies out of that.”

“She was always good at chess,” Anders added. On the field below them, Carver narrowly dodged Oghren's axe, spinning around and clocking the dwarf in the side of the head with his blade. Anders chuckled. “Good thing Oghren's got a helmet,” he commented. “Otherwise that might have been slightly beyond my skills.”

“Slightly?” Garrett repeated.

Anders grinned. “I'm very good,” he replied.

Garrett rolled his eyes. “And if you were modest, you'd be perfect, right?”

Beside him, Nathaniel snorted with ill-concealed laughter. Anders just preened, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Modesty's so overrated,” he said. “If you've got it-- ooh, ouch.” He cut himself off, wincing, as Oghren tripped Carver and mimed cleaving him in half. “Good thing that wasn't real, it would be a damn shame to ruin such a nice body like that.”

There was another choked laugh from Nathaniel as Garrett turned to face the other mage. “That's my little brother you're talking about,” he ground out.

Anders just smirked. “Would you rather I talked about you?” He raked Garrett with his eyes. “I mean, you've got a very nice body, too--”

Garrett groaned in frustration and turned away, watching as Carver and Oghren charged each other again, weapons clashing. “Who’s winning?” Bethany asked as she walked up.

“Oghren, I think,” Garrett said.

She sighed. “Damn.”

“I know.” Garrett reached out and tugged at one of the ribbons tied around the top of her staff. She’d kept their father’s staff, but she refused to wield it without certain… adjustments.

Bethany swatted his hand away. “Garrett!” she hissed.

He chuckled. “Just checking your knots.”

“I hate you.”

“Uh-huh.”

On the field, Carver swung his broadsword around with a roar. Oghren raised his axe to block the attack; there was a loud cracking sound and the head of the axe went flying. Carver stopped, looking a bit surprised, and lowered his sword. Oghren smacked the axe handle into his temple, and Carver went down like a felled tree.

Garrett snickered. Bethany clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, no,” she said, sounding torn between sympathy and amusement.

“All right, that’s enough,” Surana called. “Anders, would you...?”

“On my way.” He walked onto the field and crouched down beside Carver. The younger man pushed his hands away; Anders ignored him and pressed his palm against Carver’s forehead.

“All right, Hawke, you're up,” Surana said as she approached. “Let's see what you've got.”

Bethany clapped her hands together in excitement as Garrett made his way to the field. Carver walked past, scowling, cradling his head in his hand. Anders and Oghren trailed after him, the dwarf griping loudly about the destruction of his fourth-favorite axe.

Garrett frowned. If not Oghren, then... “Pick a side,” Surana said. He turned to see her standing behind him, one hand on her hip, her sword dangling loosely from the other. “Any spells you want, so long as they're not going to kill me faster than Anders can heal.”

He chuckled and nodded. “Got it.” He walked to the far side of the practice field, rolling his shoulders and neck as he went. One-on-one wasn't his standard way of fighting-- he and the twins had trained to fight as a team, relying on each other to balance out their weaknesses. Still, it probably wouldn't be too bad. And if he got his ass kicked, well, that put him in pretty good company, up there with Loghain and the archdemon.

Garrett swung his staff around with a flourish, holding it readied one-handed behind him. Surana twirled the sword in her hand and paced back and forth on her side of the field. Spell first, or staff? He'd follow her lead, he decided, unless she stayed on defense too long.

“Ya gonna hit each other or what?” Oghren shouted. Beside him, Anders and Bethany were engaged in animated conversation. Probably placing bets. Garrett gave them a brief glance, but in the second his eyes were off her, Surana moved, sword held across her body as she charged.

Not what he'd expected-- he had at least a foot and sixty pounds on her-- but she was also a mage wearing full-plate, so what did he know? He broke into a run, the tip of his blade dragging along the ground, and met her halfway. His staff came up, aimed at her neck. She blocked it easily, spinning past him, and dragged the flat of her sword along his side. It left a trail of aching cold behind, frost seeping in past the leather.

She had just enough of an edge on Garrett to keep him off-balance. They spun around each other, weapons clashing, ducking under blades. No magic yet, not at these close quarters. Garrett slammed the end of his staff into her chest, pulling the hit only slightly; she staggered back, panting, and shoved her hands forward. Rock hurtled through the air and caught him in the stomach, hard enough to take him off his feet and throw him back a good six feet. He landed on his side and barely managed to keep a grip on his staff.

“Shit.” Garrett scrambled to his knees as Surana approached, sword held in two hands, clearly intending to go for a mock-decapitation. He threw his hand out, stilling the air around her, and her skin shimmered as the paralysis spell set in. He grinned and got to his feet, rolling the staff over his shoulder so he could grip it like a spear. A stab to the gut and she'd be--

Surana broke out of the paralysis spell and let loose with a blast of flame. Garrett barely managed to get an arcane shield up in time, and even then, the heat singed his skin. They attempted stunning spells at the same time-- the resulting sonic burst sent them both reeling. He recovered first, by a mere second, but that was all the time he needed to twist the Fade, leeching her strength away. Surana narrowed her eyes at him and threw a fistful of lightning at him. The electricity crackled across his skin; he brought his staff up into a guard position, but it wasn't enough. She ducked low and drove her shoulder into his stomach, laying him out flat on his back.

Garrett stared up at the clouds, panting and fumbling for his staff, only to fall still as the tip of a blade came to hover a mere inch above his throat. Surana smiled down at him. “Entropy magic,” she said, almost casual save for her gasps. “And close-quarters combat. Interesting combination.”

He pushed himself up to his elbows. “Stun 'em and stab 'em's the basic idea,” he said.

She nodded thoughtfully. “You know the school well?” she asked, offering him a hand up.

“Well enough,” he replied. “Do you want a full spell list, or...?”

Surana yanked him to his feet; he could feel the Veil twisting as she did so. So it was magic, and not anything physical, that fueled her strength. Interesting. “Later,” she said. “Want to go again?”

He glanced back at the others. Bethany waved; Anders flicked a silver coin into the air and grinned. “Sure,”he said. “If only to give Beth a chance to win her money back.”

They sparred another two rounds; Garrett lost the second, but managed to win the third by hitting her with every hex he knew in the first thirty seconds, followed up by a powerful draining curse. “Impressive,” Surana said after the fight, grinning in spite of her chalky complexion. “It'll be nice to have a crowd control specialist again.”

Anders reached the field and put his hand on Surana's head, both of them glowing blue as he cast a healing spell. “Someone needs to teach your sister to gamble,” he said, glancing at Garrett. “She's worse than I am, and I haven't won a game of Wicked Grace in six years.”

“How'd you win that game?” Garrett asked.

“I cheated.”

He chuckled, then winced at the ache in his chest. He was going to be a mess of bruises, and as the rush of combat faded, he started noticing the sting of a dozen cuts and scrapes. Something trickled down the side of his face; he raised a hand to his temple and grimaced when his fingers came away sticky with blood.

Anders ruffled Surana's hair, earning him a slap to the arm, and waved his hands at Garrett. “C'mon, clear the field so your sister can play,” he said. Bethany trotted down the hill to Surana's side, her staff in hand. The elf gestured at the row of practice dummies on the far side of the field; Bethany nodded and shifted into a casting stance.

Garrett collapsed onto a bench, wincing, and watched as Bethany hurled a fireball at the dummies. Three of them blew to pieces, and another two caught on fire. Surana beamed broadly and gestured at the carnage in excitement. “That's my girl,” he said.

“Did you teach her?” Anders asked. He planted one hand on the bench over Garrett's shoulder and leaned in, prodding gently at the cut on his face.

“No,” Garrett replied, hissing slightly in pain. “She had to teach herself, mostly-- Father and I weren't very good at offensive spells. I know a couple ice spells, but that's about it.”

“I've got a little ice and a little lightning-- but mostly, I do this.” Anders laid his hand against the side of Garrett's face, fingertips in his hair. Garrett let out a sigh of relief as cool healing magic sank into the wound. “That's one,” Anders murmured, dragging his fingers against Garrett's skin for a second longer than necessary as he pulled his hand away. Garrett shot him a sideways glance as he dropped down onto the bench beside him and prodded at the bruises forming on his arm. “You're a mess, aren't you,” Anders continued, casting another healing spell. “Did you let her kick your ass just so I'd have to put my hands all over you?”

Garrett shot him what he hoped was a withering glare. Anders just grinned and slipped his hand over to his chest. “Groping your patients seems a touch unprofessional,” Garrett muttered.

“I'm not groping anyone,” Anders replied. “If I were groping you, it'd be more like--”

Garrett swatted his hand away before he could demonstrate. “Point made, thank you.”

The other mage just laughed. “Am I done healing you, then?”

“Can you do it without all the-- the flirting?”

“I could,” Anders said with a wink. Garrett was starting to wonder if the smirk was permanently affixed to the other man's face. “But it's so much less fun.” Garrett leveled a glare at him; Anders sighed and shook his head. “All right, fine, be that way,” he muttered, resting a hand on Garrett's shoulder.

Garrett looked away as healing energy swept through him. About half the practice dummies had been completely destroyed, their smoldering remains scattered across the field. Bethany and Surana were talking eagerly-- Surana made a broad, sweeping gesture with both arms that made Garrett feel inexplicably nervous-- then both women turned back towards the remaining targets. Glowing orange energy surrounded them, and a pair of fireballs detonated at the end of the field.

When the dust and flame cleared, there were no targets left, and the back wall of the compound was on fire. “Uh-oh,” Anders muttered. “Think we should help?”

Garrett shrugged. “They both know ice spells,” he said, watching as the two women ran forward, both of them laughing. “If they need help they'll let us know.”

“I like the way you think,” Anders said. He leaned back against the bench and stretched his legs out in front of him. Garrett smirked and watched as his sister helped the arlessa extinguish the fortress walls.


	3. Chapter Two

_10 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

The small village around Vigil’s Keep had only a few locations of note: the market, the chapel, and the Prince’s Flask tavern. The tavern was housed in what used to be a barn, with the flask for which it was supposedly named nailed above the door.

Garrett let the door close behind him and glanced around, feeling a sudden pang of nostalgia for the Crown and Lion. No smugglers making shady deals in the corners or enterprising adolescents scamming citizens with fake charities—nothing but farmers and merchants chatting over a pint. At least it meant his target stood out like a beacon. Anders sat at the bar, aggressively flirting with a drunk, giggly young woman. Garrett heaved a sigh and made his way to the other mage’s side.

“Hey there, handsome,” Anders greeted him, beaming and swaying a bit. He half-lunged at Garrett and attempted to sling an arm around his waist. Garrett had to take a quick step closer to keep Anders from diving face-first into the floor. “What brings you here?”

The woman looked back and forth between the two of them, then nodded, grinning. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she said with a wink. She slid off her stool and wandered off.

Anders stared after her. “Why’d you chase her off?” he asked, pouting at Garrett.

Garrett sighed and claimed the woman’s abandoned seat. “You did that all on your own,” he said. The bartender glanced at him. “Can you just fill a cup with whiskey?” he asked. The bartender looked at Anders, snorted, and nodded in sympathy.

“Oooh, can I have one too?” Anders pleaded, slumping forward.

“No.” Garrett slid his coppers across the bar. “Don’t give him one.”

“If he pays…” the bartender said. Garrett’s hand snapped out and yanked the coin purse from Anders’s belt. The bartender snickered and headed off to attend to other customers.

Anders added a devastating set of puppy eyes to the pout. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because Surana wanted me to make sure you’re not doing anything criminally stupid the night before we leave,” Garrett said. He took a sip of whiskey and grimaced. It tasted the way that armor polish smelled. Yet another reason to miss the Crown. Garrif had a surface dwarf’s appreciation for fine liquor.

“Why didn’t she come down here herself?”

“Because she has the authority to delegate things like this?” Garrett sighed. “Flames, I tried to pass it off to Carver. He started sharpening his sword with outright malice.” And then Bethany had laughed him out the door. Traitors.

Anders giggled. “Well, I’m glad it’s you instead of your brother,” he said. “I don’t think Carver likes me very much.”

“Yeah, he’s like that.” Garrett forced himself to take another sip of whiskey. He’d paid for it, and even with the very generous salary Surana was paying him, he refused to waste money.

“And you’re the sexier one, anyway,” Anders continued. Garrett glanced at him out of the corner of his eye; Anders had his elbow on the bar and his chin on his hand and was staring unabashedly.

He heaved a sigh and turned back to his glass. “Thanks. I guess.”

“You guess?” Anders kicked his leg. “That’s no way to take a compliment.”

“I did say thanks.”

“Hmph.” Anders took a long pull from his mug, then went right back to staring.

Garrett managed to ignore him for a solid thirty seconds. “How many of those have you had?” he asked.

“Three,” Anders replied, holding up five fingers. Behind him, the bartender held up four. “And then there was a soldier whose arm I fixed last week and he bought me a shot of something kinda bluish.”

Garrett cradled his head in his hand. “Why did you think it was a good idea to do this the night before we leave for the Wending Wood?”

“Be _cause_ ,” Anders said, in the tone of one who believes he’s explaining something patently obvious, “we’re gonna be gone for, like, a week and I wanted to get laid. Then you showed up and chased off all my prospects. If the Templars show up and drag me away and I die without gettin’ any, it’ll be all your fault.”

He considered arguing the point for a moment, then let it go with a sigh. “Well, this puts Surana’s comment about the statue in context, I suppose.”

Anders groaned. “You mention that _one_ statue makes Andraste look kinda hot--”

“She described your behavior as ‘ogling the statuary,’” Garrett said, smirking into his glass.

“She agreed with me,” Anders grumbled. “Said that Andraste woulda been on our side _and_ that she was a looker. And now she’s goin’ around making me sound like some kinda pervert. I’m not out humping the shrubbery.”

“No, I think that’s Oghren’s job.”

Anders laughed. “’cept I think he’s still afraid of plants,” he pointed out.

“Maybe it’s his way of asserting dominance over them.”

The other mage gave into a fit of helpless giggles, slumping over the bar and resting his head on his arms. Garrett grinned in spite of himself. “You’re funny,” Anders said. “And your smile’s nice. Oughta do it more.”

“I smile plenty,” Garrett replied.

“Not like that,” Anders said, waving a hand at Garrett’s face. Garrett leaned back slightly to avoid getting slapped. “You fake-smile a lot. I can tell.” He made another sweeping gesture. “That one was nice.”

Garrett took another drink. “Thanks.”

“No ‘I guess’ this time?”

“No, I’m going to be an arrogant bastard and agree that I do have a nice smile.”

Anders giggled again as he pushed himself upright. He carefully turned around on the stool, elbows resting on the bar, and looked out over the room. “Oh, there’s gotta be _someone_ here who’ll take me home,” he sighed. “I’m pretty and I’m drunk and I do this neat thing with electricity that everybody seems to like.” He rolled his head to the side and fluttered his eyelashes at Garrett. “You’ll help me, right?”

“I am not playing wingman for you,” he grumbled.

Anders grinned. “Well, there is another option,” he said, his gaze drifting from Garrett's face to his crotch, lingering there before he met the other man's eyes with a leering smirk.

Garrett pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet! Here I am.” Anders spun back around, grabbed his ale, and downed the rest in one go. “Your round?”

“One, I haven’t finished _my_ drink, and two, no.”

“But you took my money,” Anders pointed out. He leaned towards Garrett and fumbled around at his waist. Garrett yanked his hand away as it slid across his thigh. Anders looked wounded.

“That’s not where I keep my coin,” Garrett ground out.

Anders smirked. “If you won’t give it back then you’re buying,” he said, nodding sagely.

“Ugh. Fine. Here.” Garrett shoved the barely touched glass of whiskey towards Anders. “Finish this, and then we’re leaving.”

“Really?” Anders looked delighted. He grabbed the glass and threw back about half of it. “Oh, that’s foul,” he coughed, then finished it off.

Garrett stood up. Anders waved at the bartender and got to his feet. He stood still for a moment, swaying in place, then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’m good.”

He made it two steps before he tripped over his own feet. Garrett, who’d been anticipating such a thing, jumped forward and grabbed his elbow. “Oh, yeah,” he agreed as he pulled Anders’s arm across his shoulders, “you’re real good.”

“Thank you!” Anders beamed.

Garrett just sighed and half-carried him out of the bar. The village was quiet, and Garrett prayed that Anders wasn’t the type of drunk to start singing. He wasn’t above stunning the man and dragging him back to the Keep by his ankles.

Fortunately, aside from sporadic giggling, Anders was more or less quiet. They made it to the fortress gates before he spoke again. “Oh!” he said, waving at the dark-haired guard manning the gates. “Hello, Sergeant!”

She smirked and shook her head at him. “Hello, Anders,” she said. “Had a good night?”

“Very good,” he said. “Would be better if you’d come visit me again.”

“I’m working right now,” she pointed out.

Anders looked up at the gate. “So you are.” He shrugged and grinned. “Maybe when I get back?”

“I’m not promising you anything,” she replied with a wink. “But I’ll try to make sure I’ve got a few nights free.” She nodded at Garrett. “Good luck with him tonight.”

Anders beamed. Garrett rolled his eyes and led him through the gate, ignoring any potential double-meaning the sergeant’s words might have had. “So,” Anders purred, dragging the word out, “my bed or yours?”

Apparently _he_ wasn’t overlooking the innuendo. “You're going in your bed,” Garrett said, “and then I'm going to mine.”

“That’s no fun,” Anders complained.

Garrett huffed out a breath and walked them up the steps into the Keep, then stopped, frowning, as he realized he had no idea where Anders’s room was. “I wonder how angry Surana would be if I just dumped you here,” he said.

“Very, very, not at all angry,” Anders replied. “She’d probably laugh at me an’ tell me I deserved all the bruises.”

“I might agree with her,” Garrett muttered, but turned towards the stairs anyway. “Do you know where your room is?”

Anders let out a frustrated sigh. “Of _course_ I do,” he said. “It’s on the second floor, next to Nathaniel’s room.”

“…great.” Garrett sighed. Perhaps if they got upstairs, Anders could at least point in the right direction. And if they ended up at the wrong room, well, Garrett was fast reaching the point where he'd dump Anders in the first bed they came across.

They managed the stairs without either of them falling back down, though about halfway up Anders stumbled and sent both of them sprawling against the wall. Anders giggled quietly the rest of the way up, his hand gripping the back of Garrett's shirt collar. “This way,” he said and leaned to the right.

“I really hope you're not lost,” Garrett muttered.

Anders shook his head. “I've lived here for a month. I know where I am. You're very soft.”

“I-- what?”

“Your hair. It's very soft.” Anders brushed his fingers against the back of Garrett's head. “It's nice.”

That was definitely one of the stranger compliments he'd ever been paid. And all the touching was very distracting. “Which one's your room?” he asked, gesturing at the line of doors down the hall.

“This one.” Anders disentangled himself and stumbled over. “This is my door. I like it. It's got a lock and everything.”

Garrett raised an eyebrow. “Right. Well, I'll leave you two alone, then.” He started to turn back towards the stairs, then stopped. “Please tell me you have your keys.”

The door swung open. “I didn't lock it,” Anders said, bracing both hands on the doorframe. “I'm not an idiot.” He launched himself into the room and landed somewhere inside with a muffled thud.

“I could walk away,” Garrett muttered. “I could just...” He let out a low growl and stomped over to peer in the room. Anders was sprawled face-down on his bed, three-fourths of his body having successfully made it onto the mattress. “Good night,” he said.

Anders waved an arm over his head. Garrett rolled his eyes and closed the door. “You’re gonna regret that in the morning,” he said, shaking his head, and headed for the stairs.

*

 _11 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon, early morning_

If he'd been able to think straight past the pounding in his skull, Anders would have burned the smug look right off Hawke's face. Healing magic was powerful, but it had its limits, and one of those limits was eradicating a hangover. At least the nausea was gone.

He took a drink of water from his flask, squinting at the others in the bright sunshine. They'd set out from Vigil's Keep just after sunrise, and even so, it would be close to nightfall by the time they reached the Wending Wood. Neria had decided to investigate the caravan attacks first; the arling needed safe trade if it were to recover from the civil war. So they were off to fight marauding darkspawn, which Anders was not looking forward to in the least. That absent sense of Grey Warden duty still hadn't shown up.

“So, Hawke,” Nathaniel began, breaking the silence, “what brought you to Amaranthine?”

“The Blight.” Hawke shrugged. “My brother was at Ostagar, and Mother--” his voice didn’t quite crack, but it caught, just barely, and there was a half-second pause before he continued speaking, “Mother wouldn’t leave without him. He made it back hours ahead of the darkspawn, and we ran. We’d planned on going to Kirkwall, but… that didn’t quite work out.”

Nathaniel looked surprised. “Why Kirkwall? It’s not a city known for being friendly to mages.” He paused, frowning. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“We had family there.” Hawke shrugged. “Our uncle wouldn’t help us, though, so we came back here.” He snorted. “Bastard’s sitting on the Amell fortune and he left us at the docks.”

Nathaniel blinked. “You’re an Amell?”

“I’m a _Hawke_ ,” he stated. “Amell was my mother’s family. They disowned her after she ran off with my father.”

“I… hm.” Nathaniel shook his head. “There was a place in Kirkwall that everyone called the Amell estate, but the family hadn’t owned it for years. A decade, at least.”

Hawke’s eyes widened, and he blinked at the path, mouth opening and closing a few times before he was able to speak again. “That’s… I didn’t know that,” he said. “Neither did Mother. The way she talked, she—she assumed our uncle was in the estate. I…” He trailed off.

“It’s probably for the best,” Nathaniel said. “I’m not sure how long you and your sister would have made it in Kirkwall. The Templars there are… vigilant.”

“And you’d never have met me,” Anders added with a wink.

Hawke glanced at him, then held out both hands, palm-up. “Templars… obnoxious mage,” he muttered, miming the act of weighing both options. “Templars… obnoxious mage…”

Anders pouted. “Aw, come on, I can’t possibly be as bad as those tin cans,” he said.

Hawke dropped his hands. “I suppose not,” he said. “You’re not likely to smite me, for one.”

“Nor would I,” Anders said. “Those bloody _hurt._ ”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hawke replied. “I’ve managed to avoid them thus far.”

“I had Alistair smite me once,” Neria said. “Just so that I’d know what it felt like.” She shook her head. “Not an experience I care to repeat. Especially since most Templars wouldn't feel so guilty that they offer to buy you cookies after.”

Anders snorted. “No, they tend to be more with the kicking and cuffing and dragging by the hair.” And that was if they were feeling charitable. They never sent the halfway sympathetic Templars out to track down runaways. No, to earn that privilege, you had to be a certain level of bloodthirsty.

“Alistair?” Hawke asked. “Ferelden’s bastard prince, right?”

Neria nodded. “Among many other things, yes. Why?”

Hawke frowned, apparently deep in thought, then sighed and spread his hands. “What _happened_?” he asked. “We heard rumors out of Denerim, but you couldn’t believe half of what came out of the capital during the Blight.”

She chuckled. “It’s a long story.”

He gestured at the road stretching out before them. “We’ve got a long walk.”

“All right,” Neria said. “Shall I start with the Landsmeet, or…?”

“Start from the beginning,” Anders prompted.

She shot him an exasperated look. “You’ve heard this already.”

“Not all of it. I’m sure you skimmed over some parts. And Hawke’s right—it’s a _really_ long walk.” There was always a chance that the story might distract him from the headache.

Neria sighed. “Fine. But you three have to tell overly long personal tales next.”

“That’s fair,” Nathaniel agreed, smirking.

“Right. From the beginning… I suppose I ought to start my Harrowing, then.”

 _Morning_

“Wait, wait, did you say Isabela?” Anders interrupted.

Neria glanced at him. “…yes?”

“Rivaini, lots of gold piercings, gorgeous black hair--”

“—birthmark right about here--”

“Yes! Oh, she was fantastic.”

“That she was.”

Hawke frowned, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “Wait, I thought you and Zevran were…?”

“We shared, Hawke.”

“Oh.”

“It was my first time in a big city. I… went on a bit of a bender, truth be told.” Neria grinned. “Zevran and I sort of abandoned the mission for a few days. Wynne was so disappointed in me.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Now I’m wondering how many of my father’s stories about _his_ escape from the Circle were censored.”

 _Mid-morning_

“…and I only found out the next morning that he was a prince of Starkhaven.” Nathaniel shook his head.

“How’d that turn out?”

“Well, fortunately, no one was injured. But his family was _very_ upset. Last I heard he’d been unwillingly inducted into the Chantry.”

“Maybe you _should_ have gone to Kirkwall. Sounds like a fun town,” Anders said, elbowing Hawke in the side.

“It’s never boring, I’ll say that much.”

 _Midday_

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes. And no.”

“Still hungover?”

“Yes.”

“That’s entirely your own fault, you know.”

“Yes.”

“Want a sandwich?”

“Thanks, Hawke, but… no.”

 _Early afternoon_

“So I wrote this long, flowery, heartfelt letter about how they all wanted to repent and just needed the guidance of the Maker’s servants--”

“—and the Templars _fell_ for it?” Hawke asked, blinking at Anders.

“The lieutenant did, which was enough to drag the rest along. The whores had already agreed to help me out, so all I had to do was wait for the Templars to be sufficiently distracted and make a break for it.” Anders smiled nostalgically.

“Wow.”

“Unfortunately, they caught up with me two days later in the next town over. Found me in bed with the guard-captain’s son.”

Nathaniel pursed his lips. “I’m starting to notice a theme in your escape stories.”

“And then on my _fifth_ escape, I met Isabela!”

“Yeah. Definite theme.”

 _Mid-afternoon_

“She set his hair on fire?”

Hawke shrugged. “She was six. Six-year-old girls take their dolls very seriously.”

“But… on _fire_?”

“Hawke’s right. I stole Delilah’s dolls and tore their arms off, then leave them where she’d find them. She attacked me with strategically placed buckets of mud for the next week.”

“Strategically placed?” Neria glanced at him curiously.

“Balanced over a door frame, poured on my favorite boots… she even managed to replace one of the buckets of hot water for my bath with mud once.”

“But at no point were you set on fire,” Anders said.

“Well. I didn’t say that. She had a lot of dolls.”

“Anyway, that’s how we found out Bethany was a mage.”

“I’m staying far away from children from now on.”

 _Late afternoon_

“It’s really not that difficult.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve had however many years of practice.”

“Entropy and Creation magic both require precise control. You should not be struggling with it this much.”

Neria glanced over her shoulder at the other mages. “…Anders, are you bleeding?”

“There was a branch,” Anders replied primly. “And this is a teaching moment.”

“Anders, heal yourself. Hawke, get lessons on healing magic later.”

Hawke held up his hands. “I didn’t ask for lessons! I’m _perfectly_ happy with my curses and hexes.”

“Hmph. Fine. Your loss.”

 _Night_

The sun had just begun to dip below the horizon when they reached the borders of the Wending Wood. Neria, being the sensible woman that she was, had elected not to venture into the darkspawn-infested forest with minutes of daylight left, and thus they'd made camp in a small hollow near the road. Hawke and Neria were already asleep, or at least doing credible impressions of it, and Nathaniel was on watch.

Anders was still awake, hands tucked behind his head, staring up at the starry sky. He'd always tried to take the time to appreciate things like stars and sunsets and rain when he'd escaped from the tower, but running and hiding had always taken priority. To be honest, drinking, pretty women, and handsome men had taken priority, too. But now that he could just enjoy the sight of stars, the feeling of a warm breeze ruffling his hair, the smells of dirt and grass around him... He couldn't go back. Even if by some chance the Templars didn't execute him, being trapped in that Tower again would be a death sentence on its own.

He shook his head at his own melodramatic tendencies. His gaze danced across the sky, tracing out the constellations of his childhood as he silently named them in a language he scarcely remembered. It didn't take long for him to drift off to sleep, a faint smile on his face.

 _Hunger._

 _There has been no food since they left the caves, left the mothers. Only animals when the Father lets them out to hunt. He does not like it when they eat his prisoners, even the ones that are already dead. Meat left to rot on the stone, not growing, not like it does with the mothers._

 _Scout, the Father told them, go and look and see. But they hunger. And there are creatures, men, around a bright fire, leather armor and sheathed swords. The men will never know, never hear them coming up through the dirt._

 _The men try to run and fight, but they are too few, too weak. The blood is thick and hot and sweet, flowing into open mouths and down greedy throats, teeth tearing through flesh as the men scream and scream and scream--_

Anders jolted awake, throat stinging and stomach roiling. With a gagging moan, he twisted to the side and vomited into the grass, gasping and heaving, his skin clammy with sweat. He dragged a trembling hand across his mouth and shuddered. Neria had warned him about the nightmares, and he'd had a few, but they'd been vague, shadowy things, hard to distinguish from his normal nightmares about the Tower. Never like this.

He looked over at his fellow Wardens. Nathaniel was pale and breathing hard as he stared at the smoldering remains of the fire with wide eyes. Neria gazed into the forest, sword in hand and her lips pressed into a thin line. “They're close,” she murmured.

An open flask appeared in Anders's line of sight. He glanced up to see Hawke holding it out to him, the other man's eyes fixed on the woods. “Thanks,” he murmured, too quiet for anyone else to hear, as he took the flask. A few mouthfuls of water got the worst of the taste out of his mouth, and he used a quick flash of arcane energy to clean the flask before passing it back.

“Are we going after them?” Hawke asked, looking at Neria, as he returned the flask to his belt.

Several long seconds passed before she answered. “No,” she said. “We can't be sure where they are, and going out into the woods now would be suicide.”

“Poor bastards,” Nathaniel muttered.

Hawke looked confused, glancing around at the three shaky, pale Wardens. Neria sighed and shook her head. “Go back to sleep,” she said. “We’ll be setting out once the sun’s up.”

Nathaniel nodded and returned to his bedroll; Anders watched as he shifted position, curling one hand around his bow and turning to face the forest. Hawke settled in slowly, still watching the rest of them. Anders swallowed hard and grimaced at the lingering taste of bile in his mouth, then pushed himself to his feet. Neria looked up at him and frowned. “You need to sleep,” she murmured.

“You go,” he said. “I’m not getting back to sleep after that. Not for a while, anyway.”

She sighed. “All right,” she agreed. “Your watch is next, anyway. Hawke’s after you-- and if you stay up through _his_ watch, you and I are going to have words.”

Anders smiled. “Got it. G’night, Nery.”

“Neria.”

“That’s what I said!”

She just rolled her eyes and returned to her bedroll, still encased in all that armor as she lay down. Anders shook his head. How anyone could sleep like that was beyond him. He settled down on the tree stump, his staff leaning against his knee, and looked around their campsite again. Hawke’s eyes glinted briefly in the firelight before disappearing back into darkness.

Anders looked up at the stars again and tried to ignore the buzzing in his skull.

*

 _13 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

Their first day in the Wending Wood had not gone well. The bandits looting the wrecked caravans were the least of it; the fact that the bloody _trees_ were coming alive and attacking them was far more troubling. They kept getting lost, and Nathaniel swore that the paths moved and vanished, though Garrett thought that sounded like an excuse to cover up his own mistakes. Still, by nightfall, they'd stumbled out of the woods and onto the path leading back to the Keep.

Surana had not been impressed. She'd glared at the trees while they set camp and declared that this was not the first enchanted forest she'd bested and it probably wouldn't be the last. Garrett gave her as wide a berth as possible that night.

The next morning, they were back in the woods, this time with Surana on point instead of Nathaniel. The Wardens were all on edge; every so often, they'd all look in the same direction. It was more than a little creepy. They had yet to actually encounter any darkspawn, though. Just opportunistic bandits and homicidal trees.

“Ugh,” Anders muttered as they came across a corpse pinned to the dirt by a large branch. “Why would a demon think it's a good idea to possess a tree? I mean, going after mages makes sense, sort of, all that power and intelligence, but a tree?”

“Maybe they're desperate,” Surana suggested. “Anything to escape the Fade?”

“Yeah, but, still... a tree?”

“I didn't know spirits could possess things besides mages,” Nathaniel commented, eying the trees warily.

Anders nodded. “Mages are the easiest targets for them, but demons can get into anything if the Veil's thin enough. Even trees. Or cats.” He sighed. “Poor Mr. Wiggums.”

Surana snorted. Garrett glanced back and forth between them. “Mr. Wiggums?”

“He was my cat in the Tower,” Anders explained. “Well, not _my_ cat, really. He was one of the mousers, but he took a liking to me. There were days when that stupid cat was the only person I saw. Except for it not being a person.” He smiled fondly and shook his head.

Garrett sighed. “I know I'm going to regret this, but-- possessed by a demon?”

“A rage demon, to be specific,” Anders said. “No one really knew how it happened. He was killed, of course, but not before he took out three Templars! I was never more proud.”

Garrett glanced at Surana, who caught the look and smirked. “It's all true,” she said. “Witnessed the aftermath myself. Burned Templars and a scorched collar.”

“Poor little guy,” Anders said, shaking his head. “I wish he could've--”

A panicked scream cut him off as a man in stained, bloodied armor barreled across the small bridge towards them. “Out of my way!” he shouted. “I need to get out of here!”

Anders and Garrett both stepped aside; Surana moved into his path. “Who are you?” she asked. Anders caught Garrett's eye and smirked, looking a bit sheepish. Garrett just grinned back and shrugged.

“I'm nobody! I just want to get out of here!” the man wailed. “She's after me!”

“Who's after you?”

“The witch! She's--” Something rustled on the cliff above them. “Maker, help me, she's here! Gotta get away!” He shoved past Surana and bolted down the path.

The rustling noise grew louder. Garrett stepped back, reaching for his staff, as a twisted knot of roots and brambles burst up through the dirt. The roots sank back into the ground, revealing a blond elf, her face twisted in rage.

“More scavengers here to prey on the misfortunes of others?” she sneered, cold gaze flickering over them. “No, you are too well-armed for that. Here for me, then.” She shook her head. “You will not drive me from this forest. The shems could not do it, darkspawn could not, and you will fare no better!”

Well. She sounded... unhinged. Garrett shifted position, calling on the mana he'd need for a paralysis spell. He was not about to let her get the drop on them.

Surana didn't appear concerned. “I'm a Grey Warden. Why would I try to drive you away?”

That appeared to throw the other elf off balance. “Here to hunt the darkspawn, then?” she said, narrowing her eyes at them. “Fair enough. Should you encounter any of the merchant caravans, tell them to release my sister, or more of their men will die.”

“Uh-oh,” Anders muttered under his breath. Garrett glanced at the other man; Anders had his hands behind his back, and he could just barely make out the faint glow of magic around them. Nathaniel, Garrett realized belatedly, was nowhere to be seen.

“The merchants--” Surana started.

“Now go. Deal with your darkspawn, and stay out of my way. Consider this a warning.” Brambles shot out of the earth again, covering the elf, then both disappeared.

Several seconds passed in silence. “Um,” Anders said, eloquently giving voice to Garrett's thoughts, “what just happened?”

Surana shook her head. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Leaves crunched as Nathaniel dropped from the tree he'd somehow vanished into. “She's the one behind the caravan attacks,” he said. “Not the darkspawn.”

“But there _are_ darkspawn here,” Surana said. She rubbed her forehead. “We need to deal with both problems, then.” With a sigh, she gestured at the path beyond the bridge. “Let's see if we can find that elf again,” she said. “If nothing else, she'll be easier to question than the darkspawn.”

“Can you question darkspawn?” Garrett asked as they began to walk.

“Not typically, no, but there was a talking one leading the assault on Vigil's Keep,” Surana replied. “So maybe you can.”

Garrett blinked. “Talking?” he repeated.

“Yep,” Anders said. “Talking. Not especially well or anything, sounded a bit like he'd been punched in the mouth, but definitely speaking.”

“Talking darkspawn,” Garrett muttered. “Great.”

Hours later, they still hadn't found the elf or any darkspawn, talking or otherwise. The closest they came was a small, abandoned Dalish camp, littered with common swords and surrounded by shallow graves. “This doesn't make sense,” Nathaniel said, nudging a blade with his boot. “Why would they just leave their swords behind?”

“Maybe they're spares,” Anders suggested. “You know how these adventuring types are, picking up everything in sight. Like magpies, really.”

Surana rolled her eyes at him. “I don't pick up everything,” she said. “Just the coin and the gear that'll fetch a good price. I do have a treasury to refill, you know.”

“Mm-hm.” Anders just smirked, leaning casually against one of the half-collapsed pillars with his arms folded over his chest. Surana and Nathaniel ignored him and went back to searching the camp. Garrett moved to the edge of the ruins, peering down at the expanse of forest below. The wind ruffled his hair, and he frowned, absently running a hand through it to set it back to rights. Besides a few birds, nothing moved in the trees. He turned away with a sigh to see Anders staring at him, head cocked to the side, a faint smile on the other man's face.

Garrett raised an eyebrow; Anders just blinked, the smile fading as he realized he'd been caught, then he smirked and winked. Garrett shook his head and headed towards Surana. “Find anything?” he asked.

“Nothing that explains what's going on here,” she said. “C'mon. We've still got six or seven hours before sundown. Let's make them count.”

They descended back into the forest, following the winding path through the ruins and trees. Things were quiet for a while, a fact that seemed to frustrate Surana, until all three Wardens abruptly snapped to attention and looked to the east. “That's... loud,” Anders commented, rubbing the back of his head.

“There's a lot of them,” Surana said, sword in hand. “Or they're close.”

“You don't know?” Nathaniel asked.

She shrugged. “It's not a precise system.” She led them through the underbrush; Garrett flinched at every snapped branch or kicked stone. Being the only one in the group without the super-special Warden senses had him on edge. The others would know when they were about to be ambushed, but they might not have time to warn him. He didn't want to be the only one caught off-guard.

They emerged into a small clearing without incident. Surana frowned, turning her head from side to side. “I can't narrow it down,” she murmured, moving towards the low rise ahead of them. Dark shadows on the ground resolved into spatters and streaks of blood. Garrett grimaced in anticipation of what they would find at the end of the trail as Surana led them towards a small copse of trees, almost as though drawn there.

Something moved near the base of one of the trees. “Don't-- don't look at me,” a voice groaned.

“Who are you?” Surana asked, crouching down near the man.

“Olaf... is my name,” the man croaked. Now that he was closer, Garrett could see that the man wore the armor of the local militia. His skin was sallow and bruised, eyes mostly covered by a milky film. “Came with friends to drive out... the elf. But... the darkspawn. Too quick...” He shook his head. “We were ripped apart... biting claws and teeth from the darkness. And then... I woke... flesh and bone and gristle under me... around me...” Garrett heard Anders draw in a sharp breath. “Everyone dead,” Olaf continued. “Dead, soft meat melting into the ground. I...I crawled away. Came here... can't... can't stand to see it...”

Surana frowned. “You came here to go after the elf,” she said. “You didn’t kidnap her sister? Attack the camp?”

“No. No.” Olaf swallowed hard and shook his head. “Darkspawn came first. They slaughtered us... took our steel. Tricked us... tricked the elf... she thinks we are to blame. Hunts all in her rage, while _they_ watch...”

“So all these people died over a—a misunderstanding?” Anders asked. Garrett half-turned towards him. “Maker, that's horrible!” He shook his head, eyes wide. “We have to stop her, tell her she's wrong. Do you-- do you think she's back at her camp? We could try looking for her there.”

Surana nodded at him, then turned back to Olaf. “What should we do with you?” she asked.

“I... am already dead. Already gone. Make... make an end. Please.”

Garrett looked away as she drew her belt knife and put it to the man's throat. “Nery,” Anders said, voice low with warning, as he slowly pulled his staff from the straps on his back.

Surana slashed Olaf's throat open and turned away as the body fell. “I know,” she said, dropping the bloody knife and drawing her sword.

Darkspawn had never been so stealthy during the Blight, Garrett thought as he spun around to face the advancing squad. “Kill the emissary,” Surana ordered.

“Why do people always go after the mages first?” Anders whined, glowing with arcane energy.

Garrett concentrated on the emissary, murmuring under his breath as his magic sapped the darkspawn's lifeforce, made it resist healing. The air around the creature glowed red briefly as the curse took hold. “Because,” he said, turning his attention to one of the hurlocks, “we're the most dangerous.” The next spell he cast was a simple one, for all its horror: set the creature's blood to boiling, build up the pressure, until--

One of Nathaniel's arrows landed in the creature's chest and it burst, flinging super-heated blood and shards of bone across its fellows. They staggered, hissing, and Garrett charged into the fray, swinging his staff in a wide arc and slicing two of them open. Bursts of fire and lightning passed him on either side, tearing through the darkspawn and leaving a foul, charred scent in their wake.

Surana crashed into him, thrown back by a hurlock in gold armor. He braced himself as she staggered and regained her footing, while a blast of cold flew past them, freezing the darkspawn solid. Surana growled and threw her arms forward. The rock slammed into the hurlock's chest, shattering it into chunks.

He'd forgotten the emissary, and he turned, preparing to cast another spell-- only to see it fall with an arrow through its throat. “Good shot,” he said.

“Thank you,” Nathaniel replied politely as he hopped back to the ground. How he always managed to find a boulder or tree or something to climb on in a fight was beyond Garrett.

“Everyone all right?” Anders trotted over, his hands aglow. “You didn't swallow any of their blood?” He peered at Garrett, gaze lingering on his face.

“I'm fine,” he replied. “I fought plenty of darkspawn in the blight, I know to be careful.”

“Which is why you made one of them explode,” Anders said. “Of course.”

Garrett scowled. “None of us were anywhere near it,” he said. “I'm _careful._ ”

“You don't need to worry about us,” Surana said, moving from corpse to corpse, checking for valuables. “Wardens are immune to the taint. We can get soaked in the blood and it won't make a difference.”

“Ignore her,” Anders said. “If you soak me in darkspawn blood, I will set you on fire.”

“I thought you didn't cast fire spells.”

“I'll have _her_ set you on fire.”

“Don't bring me into this, Anders,” Neria said absently.

He sighed. “I'll get lantern oil and a bloody torch and set you on fire.”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “I cast ice spells, you know. I can extinguish a torch at ten paces.”

Anders pouted. “Just-- don't soak me in darkspawn blood, please? It's a nightmare to wash off.”

“I'll do my best.”

By the time the sun set, they were lost yet again. Surana found a reasonably defensible clearing and ordered them to make camp. Nathaniel seemed to be in a foul mood, glowering at the trees as though he could force them into a logical pattern by sheer force of will.

“So, when you said you had skills as a tracker--”

“Shut up, mage.”

Anders leaned back against a tree and grinned. “I'm just curious who trained you. Were they, perhaps, blind?”

“Anders...”

Garrett sat down beside Surana. “It's like I never left home,” he commented as the bickering continued.

She smirked. “Your siblings fight like this?”

“Sometimes.” He shook his head. “I'd hoped they'd grow out of it. But I'm pretty sure that when they're sixty, Carver will still leave wood chips in Bethany's sheets and she'll cast ice spells down his spine.”

“Oh, the ice thing sounds mean.”

“It is.” Garrett rubbed the back of his neck. “It's worse than snow down your shirt 'cause it stays for as long as she's mad at you.”

Surana chuckled. “I'll take your word for it.”

He wasn't sure if she was talking about the ice trick or the snow. On the other side of the clearing, Nathaniel was pointedly ignoring Anders, hunched over his bow and doing something with the string. Anders had picked up a long twig and was snapping off small pieces, then tossing them into the fire. “How long have you and Anders known each other?” he asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Hm. Five years or so? I mean, that's how long we've been friends-- I've known him since he came to the Tower.” She shrugged. “It's a small place. Everyone knows everyone, in one way or another. And Anders was a bit... infamous.”

“I'd imagine so, with all those escapes,” Garrett commented.

Surana shook her head and grinned. “Ah, well, that was only half his notoriety,” she said. “The other half was the fact that he was one of the most popular lays in the Tower.”

Garrett's eyebrows shot up, and he glanced back at Anders in spite of himself. The other man had changed positions, leaning back on his elbows and staring up at the sky through the gaps in the branches overhead. “Really?” he asked evenly.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “There were only three ways to deal with being stuck behind stone walls your entire life: pray, study, or shag. Anders and I were both fans of the latter. I just didn't advertise it as much.”

“Did you two...?”

“Sleep together?” She nodded. “A few times over the years, when he wasn't escaping from the tower or locked up after getting caught.”

Nathaniel swore suddenly, glaring at the fire. Anders smirked, still gazing upwards, until Nathaniel went back to looking at his bow. Anders slowly aimed his right hand at Nathaniel. “Oh, for Andraste's sake,” Surana muttered as a weak bolt of electricity sprang from Anders's finger, passing through the fire before hitting Nathaniel's knee.

“Son of a--!” Nathaniel jumped up and moved back from the fire. Anders snickered.

Surana sighed and got to her feet. “Congratulations, Anders, you get third watch for that little stunt,” she said. He pouted up at her. “Nathaniel, you can have fourth. I'll take second, Hawke's got first.”

Garrett saluted at her and laid his staff across his knees, watching as the others settled in to sleep. Hopefully they'd have better luck finding the elf tomorrow.

*

 _14 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

“Why are we doing this?” Nathaniel asked, nudging a low branch aside with his boot.

Neria sighed. “Because I owe Wynne quite a lot of favors. And Ines said she’ll get us back to the main path.”

Anders crouched down beside an elfroot plant and started plucking off leaves. “What, no love for Ines?”

“Oddly enough, no,” Neria drawled.

Behind her, Hawke huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “She seems… surly.”

“Oh, she’s a crotchety old bitch,” Anders said cheerfully. “Which is why I like her. She never cared what anyone in the Tower thought.” She’d been the freest person he’d met within those walls; looking back, he suspected that a fair amount of her attitude might have come from the fact that she’d been allowed out on a regular basis. A reward for good behavior and a bribe to get her to teach potion-making classes. The resentment coming off her during lectures had been a near-palpable thing.

“Is this it?” Nathaniel asked, pointing at a plant.

Anders and Neria looked over. “No,” they replied simultaneously. The archer sighed in defeat and moved on to the next patch of underbrush.

“Oh, here it is,” Neria said a few minutes later, standing up with a handful of seeds.

“Are you sure?” Hawke asked. “I don’t want to get scolded for bringing back the wrong thing.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Anders leaned over her shoulder and peered at the seeds. “That’s them.” He tucked the handful of elfroot he'd collected into the pouch on his belt. “Think we can find our way back to her camp without getting lost?”

Nathaniel muttered something that sounded unkind under his breath and started hiking back the way they came. Ines barely gave them a glance when they reached the edge of her camp. “Do you have the seeds?” she asked, prodding at a patch of soil with a small shovel.

“Right here,” Neria said, holding out her hand.

The older mage’s face lit up as she carefully collected the seeds. “Oh, look at those beauties,” she said. “Perfect.”

“So you’ll go to Cumberland, then?” Neria prompted.

“And tell us how to get back on the main road?” Nathaniel added, arms folded over his chest.

Ines glanced up from her seeds. “Hm? Oh, yes, the road’s straight thataway,” she said, gesturing with her free hand. “Less than a stone’s throw, can’t miss it.” She pulled a small cloth pouch from her belt and carefully poured the seeds inside. “And I suppose I’ll go to Cumberland. Daft fools need someone to talk some sense into them.”

Neria shrugged. “Breaking away from the Chantry’s not so far-fetched,” she said.

“Ridiculous and dangerous. We’ll never be trusted, least of all by the Chantry.” Ines turned back towards her tent. “Especially not after Uldred’s little stunt. Go on then, I’ve got to pack.”

“You’re welcome,” Neria grumbled and marched off into the forest.

Anders paused at the edge of the clearing. “Bye, Ines,” he sing-songed. She glanced up and rolled her eyes at him. He chuckled and hurried after the others.

“What’s this about breaking away from the Chantry?” Hawke asked.

“According to Wynne’s letter, the College is gathering in Cumberland to discuss the idea,” Neria explained. “And it’s apparently somewhat my fault—the queen offered me a reward for my role in ending the blight, and I asked that the Circle be freed from Chantry control. It’s gotten people talking.”

Anders blinked. “You asked for-- are you crazy?”

Hawke did a double take. “I’d have thought that you of all people would be glad to hear that,” he said.

“Look, I hate Chantry oversight as much as the next mage, but they can’t just decide to _leave_ ,” Anders replied, waving his hands back and forth.

“Why not?”

Anders huffed out an annoyed breath. Hawke had such bizarre gaps in his knowledge. “Any nation that willingly harbored free mages would just be asking for an Exalted March,” he said. “The Chantry will never let us out of their control. Even planting the idea that it could happen,” he nodded at Neria, “is going to make them crack down harder.”

“So what do you propose instead?” Neria asked, arms folded over her chest.

He shrugged. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do,” he said. “The Templars have all the power—it doesn’t matter if the mages ask nicely or if they openly revolt, the end result’s the same.” Mages killed or made Tranquil or imprisoned. They couldn’t change it.

Neria shook her head. “I don’t believe that,” she said. “The Fereldan Circle is going to be freed. Anora swore she’d see it done. Publicly. And when the world sees that the mages there can handle themselves… Change will come. It has to.”

Anders sighed. He wasn’t nearly so optimistic about the queen upholding her end of the bargain or the Chantry allowing it, but he didn’t have much of an interest in getting into a loud debate about it now. He fell silent as Hawke questioned Neria about the Circle politics and fraternities. “Didn’t your father tell you about any of this?” Anders asked eventually, after Neria had finished outlining the hierarchy of enchanters.

“He rarely talked about the Circle,” Hawke replied. “All Beth and I really knew was that it meant we’d be locked up, away from our family. That was enough to scare us into staying well away from the Templars.” Anders snorted and nodded, absently kicking a pebble off into the underbrush.

“There, finally,” Nathaniel muttered, gesturing at the path running up the hill ahead of them.

Anders smirked. “I think I'd be more relieved if it meant we were actually _leaving_ the bloody woods.”

“We still have to find the elf and--”

“Why are you still here?” Anders came up short at the elf's enraged shout. Speak of a demon and one shall appear, it would seem. “I told you to stay away from me! I warned you! This place is not for you!”

Neria stepped forward. “The humans didn't kidnap your sister,” she called back.

“I know a human crime when I see it!” the other elf snarled. “I have experienced more than enough of them. You will pay for repeating their lies.” She raised her arms, an arcane wind kicking up dust and leaves around her. Anders jumped as the nearby trees creaked and groaned, then began to move, roots tearing up from the ground and branches swinging like fists.

“Why am I the only one who bothered to study fire spells?” Neria shouted as she fireballed two of the sylvans.

“'Cause fire magic's boring?” Anders replied, scurrying away from the wildly swinging branches. The nearest one stopped moving, the air around it shimmering faintly; Hawke nodded in satisfaction, turning away to blast another sylvan with a cone of cold. Anders backed against the cliff and cast a glyph of repulsion around himself, just in case, then followed it up with a burst of energy to his companions, giving them extra speed as they fought.

The sylvans fell quickly, helped along in large part by Neria's fire magic. “We have to find her,” Neria ground out as she ran for the path.

“She headed to the camp,” Nathaniel said. “She might still be there.”

If she didn't use her bizarre dirt-based transportation magic. Anders jogged up the hill after the others, keeping his staff in hand just in case. The elf didn't exactly seem like the sort of person who wanted to have a pleasant chat.

Neria held up a hand as they reached the top of the hill. Anders stopped just behind the others and looked around before finally spotting the elf standing by one of the graves, her shoulders slumped. “You... you will never take me alive,” she said, voice trembling-- though he wasn't sure if it was with rage or grief.

“I'm not going to kill you,” Neria said as she took a slow, cautious step forward. Nathaniel didn't appear to agree with that assurance; he had an arrow notched, though his bow was aimed at the ground. For now.

The elf looked over her shoulder at them. “I will not go with you to some... shemlen magistrate,” she growled. “I will not bow to their rules!”

“Obviously,” Hawke muttered under his breath.

Neria inched closer. “No one has to go anywhere yet,” she said. “I just want to talk.”

“Talk,” the elf said with a bitter laugh, but remained silent, waiting, her eyes on Neria.

“The darkspawn were playing the humans against the elves,” Neria began. “The humans can't be responsible for this--” She gestured at the camp. “The darkspawn killed them before they ever came across the Dalish.”

“They shouldn't have come here in the first place,” she snarled. “If they had just left us alone, then none of this would have happened!” She let out a sharp breath. “And if it wasn't the humans who killed my clan and took Seranni, then who did?”

Neria reached into her pocket and held out her hand. Something small and metallic glinted in the sunlight. “I found this on a darkspawn corpse,” she said. “They're the ones behind this. Not the humans.”

The elf took it with a horrified gasp. “This is Seranni's,” she said, staring at the pendant. “Our mother gave it to her before she died. Seranni would never willingly part with it.” She shook her head and looked up at Neria. “Why would the darkspawn do this?”

“I don't know,” Neria said. “But I'm going to find out.”

At last, the elf turned to face them fully. “I have to find her,” she said, the pendant dangling from her clenched fingers. “She's my _sister._ I cannot let them have her!” She shook her head. “Let me come with you,” she said. “If you hunt the darkspawn, then you might find her, and I-- I have to save her.”

Neria nodded. “Then you can accompany us, for now. We will decide what to do next after we find your sister.” Anders's jaw dropped. They were doing _what?_

“Very well.” She looked down. “My name is Velanna, if you care for such things.”

“Uh, I'm sorry,” Anders said as he stepped forward and raised a hand. “I just-- we're bringing the homicidal lunatic along with us? That's the plan?”

Neria leveled a glare at him. “Yes, it is,” she said in a tone that left no room for argument.

Anders argued anyway. “She killed a lot of people because she failed to do _basic_ research--”

“Anders.” Neria's glare could have frozen lava. “She's coming with us. End of discussion.”

Someday he'd figure out exactly when she'd gotten so damn commanding. Probably the day someone made her a Commander. Clearly the title had gone to her head. He looked away and folded his arms as Neria turned back to Velanna. “Darkspawn usually live in tunnels, under the ground,” she said. Anders just barely managed to keep from flinching. “Do you know of any caves around here?”

Velanna nodded. “There is an abandoned tunnel to the north, not far from here,” she said, gesturing in that direction. “The tunnels run far into the earth.”

“We'll start there, then,” Neria said. She strode towards the entrance of the camp, not bothering to see if the others were following. Velanna hurried after her; Anders gritted his teeth and glanced over at Hawke. The other man gave a barely perceptible shrug and glanced at Velanna, then half rolled his eyes. Anders smirked. At least he wasn't alone in his opinion of their newest addition.

They were about halfway down the hill when Anders realized that Nathaniel had once again vanished. He glanced over his shoulder to see the archer lagging a good five or six strides behind. “Mages aren't very good meat shields, you know,” he called.

Nathaniel shrugged. “Just being cautious,” he replied. “I am the only non-mage here, after all.”

“And what, you think we're all going to turn on you?” Hawke asked, his tone straddling the line between sarcastic and threatening.

Another shrug, this time accompanied by the barest flicker of a smirk. “Better safe than sorry.”

Hawke snorted and looked back at the path. Anders was planning out a retort that involved the relative speeds of arrows and lightning, plus a clever Howe pun, when the ever-present buzz of darkspawn surged in his brain. “Andraste's flaming knickers,” he swore as the creatures charged up the hill towards them. Neria blasted them with lightning, and a fireball detonated toward the back of the group. Anders cast a repulsion glyph just in front of Neria. It would be enough to keep the darkspawn from advancing--

Except, of course, for the ogre barreling toward them. It ignored the glyph, and Neria dove out of the way just barely in time to avoid getting trampled. Hawke swore and ran down the hill towards the darkspawn; before Anders could get through wondering what in Andraste's name the man was doing, the air rippled with a sonic burst. The ogre stumbled, momentarily stunned, and Hawke _jumped_ , staff over his head like a broadsword as he swung down at the darkspawn. The blade sliced along its shoulder, drawing thick gouts of blood.

It was, Anders decided as he blinked in surprise, really impressive and kinda hot.

Of course, then Hawke's momentum carried him past the ogre to hit the ground gracelessly and roll down the hill a bit. He landed near the repulsion glyph-- Anders fed it a bit more power, making it pulse brighter, and Hawke scrambled to get within the relative safety of its edges. Hawke's continued survival thus ensured, Anders turned his attention to the others. The air was thick with arcane energy as the mages slung spells, with Nathaniel's arrows occasionally cutting through the fray. Anders leaned on his staff and channeled healing energy into the others, eyes fluttering closed as he concentrated.

The ground shuddered when the ogre finally fell, coating the hill in slick, foul blood. Anders skirted around it as he made his way to Hawke's side. The other man was leaning against a tree, favoring one leg, teeth clenched in pain. “Nice trick,” Anders commented.

“Thanks,” Hawke muttered. “Next time I'll try not to break my ankle on the landing.”

Anders frowned. It had better not be broken-- he could heal broken bones, of course, but that was something that really needed to heal naturally. Completely healing a broken bone with magic tended to leave the bone a bit weaker and more likely to break in the future. He crouched down and prodded at Hawke's leg, his eyes half-closed as he let light tendrils of magic see for him. “Just fractured,” he said. “Very _close_ to a full break, but you got lucky.” He'd still prefer if it was left to heal on its own, but he'd also prefer not to be in a darkspawn-infested forest about to head into a darkspawn-infested cave. He rarely got what he wanted.

“There,” he said as he finished the healing spell. “Try that.”

Hawke cautiously put his weight on his leg and nodded. “Thanks,” he said, offering Anders a hand up.

Anders took it and leaned into the pull, overbalancing ever-so-slightly and leaning in toward Hawke. “You're very welcome,” he said. Hawke released his hand like it was on fire and looked away. Anders smirked. He was too easy sometimes-- except, of course, in the way that would have been _really_ fun.

“Let's move,” Neria called as she passed them, stomping through the blood and muck on her way down the hill. Anders trailed after the others and scanned them for visible signs of injury as they walked. Nothing obvious, and no one else had asked for his aid.

Neria glanced back over her shoulder at him as they approached the entrance to the mines. Anders flashed her a tense smile and nodded; that appeared to satisfy her, and she shouldered open the door. Anders drew in a deep breath of fresh, open air, as though somehow he could hold it in his lungs until they left the mines, and followed her down into the tunnels.

It wasn't too bad, but he knew from their earlier trip into the Deep Roads under the Keep that it never was at first. He could convince himself he was fine for a while. But the walls would start to shrink around him sooner or later. Anders just prayed that he wouldn't screw up quite so spectacularly this time.

They paused at the base of the stairs as Neria took in their surroundings. Already the air felt heavier; Anders rubbed his palms against his robes and tried to feign impatience. “There's something here, but I can't....” Neria sighed and shook her head. “Let's just see what we can find,” she said, nodding at the tunnel ahead of them.

She skirted around a strange rune carved into the floor, leading them forward. As they passed by, the air beside them warped, throwing them to the side and onto the rune. Force magic, Anders thought as he scrambled to his feet, cast by someone powerful--

He could sense something behind them, and Anders spun around, looking up at the scaffolding over the cave. There was a dwarf in battered armor, her lank hair surrounding a bruised face, and beside her was... was... something he had no words for. A darkspawn, he could tell that much, but taller than normal, in battered black and purple armor, a strange gold mask covering its eyes.

It stretched out a hand, and the rune pulsed with magic. “Shhh...” the darkspawn whispered. “Sleep...”

Anders had been under the effects of a sleep spell before-- some of the apprentices used to cast them when they felt their dorm-mates were being too rowdy-- but this was so much more intense. It was complete and total exhaustion, all energy drained from his body in a rush. His legs buckled, and he was dimly aware of pain as his knees hit the stone floor before his eyes fell shut and everything went black.

 _He wakes, briefly, or he thinks he does, to the feeling of manacles on his wrists. He fights them on instinct, panicking, because the Templars found him again, they always do, and if he's chained down to a table they're going to make him Tranquil, he's certain of it, and he'd rather die--_

“ _Shhh,” a voice says, calm and soothing but still wrong, somehow. There's a hand on his shoulder and his blood is fairly singing at the contact. “I apologize for what I must do. But you must rest, now. Be calm and rest...”_

 _He fights it, but unconsciousness slides up around him again and everything fades._

 _16 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

Anders woke to a variety of pain: throbbing in his head, stinging in his arm, aching in his back. He reached for a wisp on mana to heal himself on instinct, and it wasn't until he cast the spell that the meaning of it sank in. He could cast spells. Which meant there were no Templars.

He bolted upright, barely choking back a whoop of joy, and immediately regretted the action. His vision swam with the sudden motion, and he groaned, cradling his head. He realized belatedly that he was wearing only rough, scratchy pants in place of his silk robes. The implications of that were wholly unsettling and he resolved to ignore them for as long as possible.

“Good, you're awake,” Nathaniel half-whispered. Anders raised his head to see the archer sitting across from him, back against the wall, arms folded over his bare chest.

Making a mental note to stare lewdly in a few moments, Anders glanced around, taking in his surroundings. They were imprisoned in an open dungeon, with the cells separated by ceiling-to-floor bars instead of solid walls. Anders had always preferred that layout. Not as small and dark, and there was always the opportunity to chat with another living person. Neria and Velanna lay in the next cell over, both women unconscious and dressed in ill-fitting dresses that might have started life as burlap sacks. Hawke was sprawled on the floor between himself and Nathaniel, apparently also unconscious.

“What happened?” Anders asked. “Are you hurt?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Just a headache. As to the former, I was hoping you might have a better idea. The darkspawn was using magic, after all.”

“All I can tell you is we were hit with the most powerful sleep spell ever,” Anders said, shrugging. “Beyond that, I haven't a clue.”

Hawke groaned and rolled onto his back, eyes screwed shut. “Ugh.”

“Well-put,” Anders agreed, scooting closer to the other man. “What hurts?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Thought so.” Anders placed a hand on Hawke's shoulder and cast a light healing spell. Hawke blew out a relieved sigh and opened his eyes. His gaze danced around for a moment before landing on Anders-- or, more specifically, Anders's chest. His eyes widened slightly as he looked him up and down. Their eyes met; Hawke looked away quickly, and Anders smirked at the slight flush that rose on the other man's face.

During his year in solitary, Anders had gotten into the habit of exercising, imitating what he'd seen the Templars doing in the barracks, because he had precious little else to pass the time. And he kept it up when he'd been released, again because there wasn't much else to do. He was banned from teaching, he'd read everything in the library, and interacting with people was... hard. He managed it, mostly by remembering how he used to be and acting like that, pretending until it got easier and it didn't feel like pretend so much anymore. And after he'd escaped, well, running and hiding were exercise enough.

In short, Anders looked good under his robes and he knew it. He couldn't blame Hawke for staring.

That being said, no one would fault him for ogling Hawke right back. In his experience, mages tended to be on the frail side. Even Neria, stomping around in her ridiculous armor, was tiny; she just cheated with magic. But Hawke was something else altogether. Where Anders knew he was lean, Hawke was solid, all broad shoulders and thick muscle. He looked like the sort of man who'd spent most of his life working on a farm, or perhaps wrestling bears on mountaintops.

Anders kept right on staring as Hawke got to his feet and walked to the door of their cell. “What in the void is going on?” the other mage asked, looking around.

“We got captured by darkspawn and now we're in prison,” Anders replied. “Seems pretty obvious.”

Hawke glanced back at him with a frown. “That thing was a darkspawn?”

He kept forgetting that Hawke wasn't a Warden. “Yeah,” he said, glancing at Nathaniel for confirmation. “An emissary, I guess.”

A string of what Anders assumed were Dalish curses met his ears, followed by Neria groaning in pain. Anders turned to face them. “Come here, I'll heal you,” he said, sticking his arm through the bars between their cells and waggling his fingers. Neria stumbled over; Velanna just cast a spell of her own.

Neria looked around at their cells and then down at herself as Anders healed her. “I swear by all that is holy, if they've done something with my armor I will raze this blighted forest to the ground.”

“Um.” Anders just blinked at her.

“One-of-a-kind dragonbone plate. I had to haul large pieces of dragon across Ferelden for that. Do you know how many dragons there are flying around?” She huffed out an irritated breath. “If I could even get Wade to make another set, he's such a drama queen...”

Anders just blinked at her. Neria sank down against the wall and leaned her head back against the stone wall. “What happened?”

They quickly told her what little they knew, none of which seemed to surprise her. Once they finished, she turned to look at Anders. “Ideas on how we get out of here?”

“Why are you asking _me?_ ”

“Seven-time escapee,” Neria replied with a wry grin. “Not to mention you broke out of a similar cell in Vigil's Keep.”

“Er. Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh, had the keys. The lieutenant threw them to me when the darkspawn attacked.”

Neria stared at him for several long seconds. He stared back, arms folded, eyebrows raised in defiance. He hadn't killed them. He wasn't a murderer. She knew what the Templars were like, what they'd done to him, and she had no place to judge him for getting away.

“Well, that doesn't help much,” she finally said as she looked away. “Any other ideas?”

*

Garrett was cold and sore and weary after what he guessed had to be a few hours of futilely blasting the prison bars with ice spells. Surana and Velanna were still attempting to melt the steel bars of their cell with concentrated fire spells, though they'd made little progress.

Anders sat with his back against the wall and played with a spellwisp, rolling it over his fingers the way other men might have toyed with a coin. Nathaniel leaned against the wall, arms folded, and stared out at the silent dungeon.

“Damn,” Surana muttered, lowering her hands. “I'm tapped out.”

Velanna just glanced at her and continued to aim white-hot flame at the bars. Surana paced the length of the cell, rolling her shoulders and stretching her arms over her head. She stopped abruptly, turning to face the dungeon; Anders and Nathaniel straightened up as well. “Is that...?” Anders asked, frowning.

“Something tainted,” Surana confirmed. “Velanna, stop.”

The other elf scowled but obeyed. Garrett stood and moved to the center of the the cell, preparing a paralysis spell. It would at least buy them some time. He heard the slide of skin on stone as Anders got to his feet behind him, apparently keeping his back pressed to the wall.

To their left and just out of sight, a door clanged shut. Soft footsteps approached, and Garrett held his breath, tensed, as an elf woman in heavy armor came into view.

Before any of them could act, Velanna gasped. “Seranni!” she cried, lunging forward to grab the bars. “Oh, creators, what have they done to you!”

Seranni shook her head. “They haven't done anything,” she said. An obvious lie-- she looked as bad as Olaf had, back in the woods. Infected with the taint, given the way the Wardens had reacted to her, and that was a death sentence. “I'm fine. It's not me he wants...” She shook her head. “I have to get you out before something bad happens. I don't want anyone else to get hurt.”

Velanna sighed. “Yes, all right. Let me out and I'll take you home.”

Seranni ignored her sister, instead looking at Surana. “The darkspawn have your things,” she said, hastily unlocking the door. “You can get everything back if you're careful and clever.” Something clanged in the distance. Seranni looked over her shoulder and winced. “They're going to come back to check on you,” she said as she unlocked the door to their cell. “You have to hurry!”

“Wait, can you just tell us what's going on?” Surana said, moving towards the cell door.

“I'm sorry,” Seranni said. “Get out of the mines. Hurry!”

She bolted. “Seranni, wait! I can't just leave you!” Velanna shouted, shoving past Surana to follow her sister. The other door slammed open, and darkspawn poured into the dungeon.

Garrett hit the door of the cell mere seconds later. He widened the paralysis spell, feeding it more power, and managed to still about half the attackers. Fireballs and blasts of lightning exploded on the rest of the darkspawn; a few arcane bolts finished off the survivors.

“I need a bow,” Nathaniel ground out, stalking past them to search the crackling corpses.

Anders chuckled. “What, no interest in punching darkspawn to death?”

Nathaniel didn't bother to reply. Surana followed him and picked up a longsword. “This will do for now,” she decided, spinning it in her hand. “Let's go.”

She headed for the door the darkspawn had come through. “What are you doing?” Velanna demanded. “We have to find Seranni!”

Surana spun on her heel, intimidating even in a coarse shift and bearing a cheap sword. “We are going to make sure that nothing will come around behind us while we're in here,” she snapped. “If you want to go on your own, I won't stop you, but as long as you accompany us you follow my orders. Understood?”

For a moment, Garrett thought Velanna was going to leave, but then she nodded. “Fine,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “Lead on, then.”

Surana narrowed her eyes at Velanna before striding through the doors and up the stairs. The room beyond was small, full of books and cages and tables buried under parchment. Garrett lingered near the door, his attention mostly on the stairs below, while Surana and Nathaniel searched the room. Anders leaned against the wall near the door and stared at the tiled floor.

“This must have been where he brought us,” Surana said, looking at the stone table sitting on a raised dais. She ran a finger along the chains draped across the surface, then glanced up at the hanging cages.

“Brought us?” Garrett repeated. The only thing he remembered was waking up in the cell.

“Maybe he didn't take you, since you're not a Warden,” Surana replied. She hopped up on the table and laid down, arms at her sides, and looked around.

Anders drew in a hissing breath and pushed off from the wall. “C'mon, Nery, this is no time for a nap,” he called, moving a few steps into the room.

Garrett did a double-take as he finally got a clear look at Anders's back. His skin was a mess of scars, dozens of thin lines crisscrossing his skin from shoulders to waist. “What happened?” The words were out of his mouth before he could think, and he winced as soon as he said them.

He could see Anders's shoulders tense; the other man pivoted in place, turning so his back was towards the edge of the platform, away from everyone else. “That directed at me?” he drawled. Garrett nodded. Anders shrugged lazily; behind him, Surana slid off the table, cringing. “The Templars didn't exactly let me off with a slap on the wrist after I escaped.” He grinned broadly and nodded at Surana. “Find anything useful up there?”

She glanced at Velanna before shaking her head. “Nothing much,” she said. “We should move on.” They fell in behind her as they left the workroom, and Garrett was all too aware of Anders's decision to bring up the rear.

The mine was crawling with darkspawn, and with everyone lacking armor and proper weapons, fighting their way through became more and more of a challenge. Garrett had to force himself to stay still and not charge the creatures; his fighting style was as unique as the staff he'd learned it for, and just grabbing a sword and charging in would get him killed.

Velanna and Nathaniel were the first to find their equipment, unfortunately located on the corpses of darkspawn ghouls. Anders whined about how his robes were going to be ruined and spent a fair amount of time begging Surana for an advance in pay so he could buy new ones. She ignored him, for the most part. Garrett found his gear on a ghoul in the fourth band of darkspawn they encountered; he grabbed his staff from its dead hands and looked it over, assuring himself that it was unharmed. His armor smelled absolutely foul and had some unpleasant stains on the leather, but it would get him through the rest of the mines.

Maybe he could make Carver clean it when he got home. The stench alone might get him to shut up about going off on adventures with the Wardens.

A few hours after escaping from the dungeon, they reached a large cavern that was honeycombed with smaller caves and with no obvious exit. “Anders, Hawke, keep watch out here,” Surana said. “We'll work on finding a way out, but I don't want to get jumped by darkspawn.”

“No problem,” Anders said. Surana glanced at him again and nodded, then led the other two off to the first row of caves.

Anders shivered and rubbed his arms over his bare arms. “I think this is the point where I'd offer you my coat, if I had one,” Garrett said.

“Ooh, Ser Hawke, how sweet of you,” he replied with a wink. “A shame you don't have a coat to spare.”

“Or a working knowledge of fire spells.”

The other man chuckled. “Well, I appreciate the thought,” he said. “And you could always warm me up another way.”

It flashed through his mind in an instant-- pressing Anders up against the cavern wall, his hands warm on the other man's cool skin, breath and lips and tongues hot as they kissed. Garrett blinked. “We're on watch,” he replied, instead of 'no, I'll pass,' which was what he should have said.

Anders grinned. “We won't be on watch forever, though.”

Garrett cleared his throat, trying to think of a polite way of saying 'no, sorry, really bad idea,' when Nathaniel leaned out of a cave. “Anders!” he shouted. “We need you. Now.”

Anders looked up in surprise, then ran across the cavern. Garrett hesitated for a moment before following. He'd stay outside the cave, but standing there alone was just asking to get eaten by an ogre.

“In here,” Nathaniel said. Anders drew in a deep breath and walked in. Even at the mouth of the cave, the air was thick with the stench of blood. Garrett peered inside; Surana was crouched on the ground beside a man in Warden armor, his legs mangled and bleeding.

Velanna's hands were glowing with healing magic, but she immediately moved aside to let Anders through. “I did what I could,” she said. “But I'm not a healer...”

“And I am,” Anders said, kneeling beside the other Warden, his gaze and hands sliding over the injuries. “He's in shock. Lost a lot of blood.”

“Commander...” the man rasped. “My... my ring... bring it to my wife... please...”

“I'd rather bring you to your wife,” Surana replied.

“I... I won't...”

“Just hold on,” Anders ordered. His entire body glowed faintly with gold-white light. “You're going to be fine. I can get you up to limping, that's all you need...” The light flowed out from his hands and into the Warden's body. For a moment, the man's breathing seemed to improve-- then he let out a shuddering gasp and went limp. The light stopped, swirling uselessly in the air around Anders's hands. Anders stared in silence for several long seconds. Then he closed his eyes and leaned back, his hands curling into fists as the light disappeared completely.

“You did what you could,” Surana said, reaching out to touch his arm.

“It was probably too late by the time we got here,” Anders agreed. “Still...” He shook his head and got to his feet. “Let's just work on finding the way out, shall we?” Surana nodded and brushed the dead Warden's eyes closed before leading them back into the cavern.

Another hour dragged by as they continued wandering in the tunnels. They managed to find Anders's and Surana's equipment-- Surana all but hugged her armor when she stripped it off the darkspawn, and despite his earlier whining, Anders pulled on his robes without complaint. As they backtracked down another wrong turn, Garrett started wondering how long they'd been in the mines. There was no way of knowing how long they'd been unconscious, and he could only guess at the amount of time that had passed since then. Hopefully Bethany and Carver weren't worrying too much; or, rather, he hoped that Bethany wasn't worrying and that Carver hadn't moved into his room yet.

“This looks promising,” Surana said as they finally found a flight of stairs leading up. Anything that seemed to take them generally toward the surface was a good sign. The stairs led to a hallway led to a large chamber-- Garrett blinked hard and shook his head to clear it. They needed to rest soon, limited supplies or no.

Halfway across the room, Surana came to an abrupt stop. The darkspawn, the dwarf, and Seranni stood on a balcony, looking down on them, like spectators in an arena. Something roared overhead, the sound echoed and doubled by the high ceiling. Garrett looked up as a pair of dragons wheeled overhead, then, with a horrific shriek, dive-bombed them. He lunged to the side, nearly colliding with Velanna as they tried to dodge.

“Dragons!?” Anders yelped as he scrambled to his feet. “You have got to be kidding me!”

Garrett ignored him in favor of throwing up an arcane shield to block the gouts of flame.He retaliated with a blast of ice. Surana and Anders apparently had the same idea, and the crossfire froze both dragons in place. Leaving the offensive spells to the others, Garrett lunged forward and stabbed his blade into the chest of the closest dragon. Hot blood splashed out over the ice and his arms. Garrett jerked back and swung his staff around, hoping to slice through the dragon's neck.

There was a loud cracking sound, and the other dragon screamed as it broke free of the ice. Garrett staggered, stunned by the cacophony echoing off the stone. A large, taloned paw smacked him in the chest and sent him flying across the room. He lay on the floor, dazed, blinking up at the ceiling as the dragons took wing again.

Nathaniel grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet. Garrett nodded his thanks and ran towards the dragons, mere steps behind Surana. The dragons were fast, but they were no match for the combined spellpower of four mages and Nathaniel's deadly aim with a bow. The archer took out the first dragon as it prepared to dive again, a pair of arrows piercing its throat. With their attention focused on the remaining dragon, the fight turned solidly in their favor.

Surana turned to face the emissary as the dragon let out a death rattle. The darkspawn regarded them silently, then nodded, almost in satisfaction. It turned and slowly walked away, followed by the dwarf, and after a moment's hesitation, Seranni went as well.

“No!” Velanna shouted. “Seranni! You-- you can't...”

The emissary turned back and hovered in the air for a moment, radiating raw arcane power, then with a thundering sonic boom the tunnel collapsed in front of it. Velanna let out a harsh, sobbing breath, her hands balled into fists. Garrett looked away. He might not like what she'd done, but Maker, he understood. If it had been Bethany...

Surana exhaled slowly. “Come on,” she said. “Let's go.”

“What?” Velanna shook her head. “We have to get to Seranni!”

“She's a lost cause!” Surana snapped. “She's working with the darkspawn. I'm sorry. There's nothing we can do for her.”

Velanna clenched her jaw. “Then I will have revenge,” she said. “Wardens can sense the darkspawn, yes? Track them into their lairs?” At Surana's nod, she continued. “I would join the Grey Wardens. Give me the ability to hunt down those monsters in the Deep!”

“The Joining could kill you,” Surana said. Garrett raised his eyebrows. Well, that was an interesting bit of information.

“Or at the very least, it's hard to get the taste out of your mouth for a few hours,” Anders put in.

Velanna raised her chin. “I am not afraid of death,” she said. “I will pledge my service to you in return for the powers your order can grant. What say you?”

Surana sighed. “Very well. Welcome to the Grey Wardens. Now let's try to find our way out of here.”

 _18 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett had never been so glad to see the walls of Vigil's Keep. All he wanted was to go home, strip off his armor, and sleep for a week. Maybe he'd take a bath before falling into bed. He hated washing the sheets.

“Commander!” One of the guards ran out to meet them at the gate. “Seneschal Varel wishes to see you immediately. Lord Guy has been arrested and is being held in the Keep dungeons.”

Surana blinked several times. “I'll speak with him, thank you,” she said.

“Garrett!”

He turned, smiling, as Bethany ran towards him. She launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug. Garrett laughed and nearly lifted her off the ground. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She swatted his shoulder. “Am _I_ all right? You're the one who was off chasing darkspawn for a week. And you _reek_ , brother.”

“Yes, well, I was fighting darkspawn, as you said,” he replied with a grin. He looked back at the others. Velanna was glaring at him, for some indecipherable reason, while Anders and Nathaniel had just continued on towards the Keep.

Surana waved her hands at him. “Go on,” she said. “Come by my office tomorrow. We'll need to discuss the prisoner.”

“Right.” He slung his arm around Bethany's shoulders and started walking back towards the house. “So, did I miss anything good?”

“Rascal missed you _terribly._ ”

“Of course he did. What about Carver? Did he steal any of my things?”

*

 _19 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

The Keep infirmary was quiet and still, its only patient unconscious, the faint creak of wood and the soft rustle of a turning page the only sounds to disturb the silence. Anders tilted his chair back on two legs, maintaining a precarious balance with his feet on the desk. His attention was focused almost entirely on the book in his hands, though he glanced up whenever Velanna shifted or made a sound. Her Joining had gone well enough, in that she'd survived, but hours later and she was still passed out. The ritual affected everyone differently: Nathaniel had been on his feet less than two hours after his Joining, while Anders had spent the better part of the day after his battling nausea in this very room.

He turned a page in his book, absently chewing on his lower lip. Neria had sent a request to the College in Cumberland for a variety of books and pamphlets; he'd all but tackled her in a hug when she had shown up at his door bearing a stack of the latest literature on healing magic. One of the things-- probably the _only_ thing-- that the Circle had going for it was the library. With a nearly infinite number of diseases, afflictions, and injuries that the mortal body could fall prey to, the opportunities for research into healing magic were nigh limitless. And, unlike research done by Primal specialists (a fireball was a fireball was a fireball) it was actually _useful._

This particular book contained some fascinating, if somewhat unsound, theories on regeneration magic. It was easy enough to reattach a limb, if said limb was still intact and the injury was recent, but actually regrowing missing parts required the sort of power that usually involved buying a lyrium cartel or sacrificing half a dozen slaves. Spirit healers had been trying to find a way to cheat that power requirement for decades.

The door creaked open, and Anders glanced up as Nathaniel slipped into the room. “How is she?” he asked.

Anders shrugged. “Still out of it,” he replied. He folded down the corner of his book-- somewhere, Finn was weeping, and he smirked-- and closed it. “Did you need anything?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Just wanted to check on her.”

“Why, Nathaniel, you sound almost smitten.” Anders grinned at him. “I thought blonde and crazy wasn't your type.”

“ _Male_ isn't my type, Anders, and even if was, I'd have to be pretty desperate before I bedded you.”

Anders sighed. “Your loss,” he said, examining his fingernails. “But you're taken with _her_?”

“No.” Nathaniel huffed out an irritated breath. “I'm just curious. Surana considers you and Oghren friends. Velanna and I are more... penitents, I suppose.” He shrugged. “I'm surprised she let Velanna live, truth be told, after what she did to my father and Teryn Loghain.”

Anders swung his feet off the desk, letting the chair thud back to the floor. “Not to belittle the fact that she _did_ go on a paranoid murderous rampage, but their crimes were on a slightly larger scale.”

Nathaniel scowled. “What would you know about their crimes? You were in the Circle the whole time.”

Pointing out that he'd been in the Circle when Uldred had led a revolt fueled by blood magic and demons in Loghain's name seemed ill-advised. “More than you did, apparently,” he replied, keeping the grin fixed on his face. “At least _I'd_ heard what your father had gotten up to.”

The scowl deepened. “And now I'm paying for it.”

“Tragic, isn't it?” Anders drawled. He paused for a moment, then brightened. “You know, you're actually just like me!”

Nathaniel glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. “Am I, now?”

“Everyone hates your family for something terrible they did, even though you weren't involved,” he began.

“I hope you have a point, Anders.”

So impatient. “It's like you're a mage,” he said. “If there were more Howes, they'd lock you all up in a tower to keep everyone else safe!”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “A thrilling analogy.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door. “Let me know when she wakes up.”

“Wouldn't it be more appropriate for you to sit at her bedside and stare longingly until she awakes?”

The sound of the door clicking shut was his only answer. Anders sighed and shook his head, then pushed himself to his feet. He'd stalled on making potions long enough. And given how many they used in the mines, they were going to need a _lot_ more to get through the summer.

*

 _21 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett paused at the end of a paragraph and leaned back in his chair. He rolled his neck to the side, groaning in pain when the bones cracked. Writing reports was the least entertaining part of his job. Still, it had to be done, and a quiet rainy day was the time to do it. He picked up the parchment and re-read the last few lines.

 _Having re-examined the letters we recovered from his estate, it is evident that Lord Guy's claims of forgery are false. The investigations of those individuals he accused of framing him (Bann Renalia, Lord Darren, and Seneschal Varel) have turned up nothing other than a shared dislike of Guy. That he refuses to name his conspirators even while faced with death is of great concern. It indicates a certain level of fanaticism. Unfortunately, even if he is executed, his conspirators_

Movement in the doorway of his office caught his attention, and Garrett glanced over the top of the paper. Anders beamed when he realized he'd been noticed and stepped fully into view. Garrett returned his attention to the report in the vague hope that if he ignored the other man hard enough, Anders would go away.

Garrett re-read his entire report twice and Anders still didn't leave. Finally, he set the paper down and resumed writing: _will likely view him as a martyr and take his death as further proof that you need to be removed from power._

“What're you up to?”

Garrett didn't take his eyes off the page. “Working,” he replied. “I trust that you're at least familiar with the concept.”

Anders chuckled. “In passing, yes.” Despite himself, Garrett glanced up. Anders was leaning-- posing, more accurately-- against the door frame, fiddling with one of his garish gold armbands. Garrett rolled his eyes and went back to writing. _Regardless, I advise that you_

“Working on what?”

Garrett took a deep breath and reminded himself that not only was strangling the healer a poor strategic decision, but also a futile gesture, as Anders would likely be able to heal any damage as it was done. “A report for Surana about Lord Guy.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It's not.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I know.”

Anders frowned, and Garrett hid a triumphant smirk by returning to his report. _proceed with_

Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he looked up again as Anders wandered into the office, looking around with idle curiosity. “What are you doing?” Garrett asked.

Anders ran a finger over a dusty shelf and scrunched his nose. “You have, like, nothing in here,” he commented, rubbing his fingers together to get rid of the dirt.

“I do most of my work at home,” Garrett replied. He returned the quill to the inkwell to keep it from dripping on the parchment. “It's quieter. Usually.”

“So why are you--”

“Because the twins are stuck inside, just like everyone else, and they were being _almost_ as annoying as you are.” At least they'd kept out of his room. Twenty years old and with their own bedrooms, and as soon as the rain started they'd reverted to age seven, bickering over everything and deliberately annoying each other for a laugh. Garrett had offered to set them up with watercolors, like Father used to, only half-joking. Bethany had flounced off to her room and Carver had gone back to reducing a piece of wood down to shavings. Garrett had fled before said shavings ended up in Bethany's bed or hair or clothes again. He could always live in his office if they burned the house down.

Anders laughed and walked past Garrett's desk to the window. “Why do you have the curtains closed?” he asked.

“Because I don't want people seeing into my office.” Garrett watched as Anders pushed the curtains open. “And it's raining.”

“I _know_ ,” he replied with relish. “Isn't it great?”

“It's cold and wet and dreary.”

“It's not cold,” Anders said, leaning one shoulder against the glass and peering up at the clouds. “Or dreary.”

Garrett opened his mouth to argue with that assessment, but the small, honest smile on Anders's face made him pause. It reminded him a bit of Father on sunny summer days, and how Mother had practically needed a rope and lasso to get him to come inside. “If you like it so much, why aren't you out in it?” he asked instead.

“Mud and I don't get along very well,” Anders replied. He looked away from the rain and grinned. “If the courtyard was stone instead of dirt, I'd have been out there for hours.”

“That probably wouldn't be good for the feathers,” Garrett said with a nod at the other man's shoulders.

Anders laughed again and stepped away from the window. “Who said I'd be wearing my robes?” he teased as he hopped up to sit on Garrett's desk; Garrett had to yank his hand back quickly to avoid accidentally groping the other man. Anders looked back at the window, swinging his feet back and forth slightly, idly tapping his fingers on his thighs. He was sitting close enough that Garrett could feel his body heat on his arm. He swallowed hard and pointedly picked up the quill again, tapping the metal nib against the glass inkwell, and started to re-read the report yet again in an attempt to collect his scattered thoughts.

He'd only made it through the first paragraph when Anders leaned forward, planting one hand on the back of Garrett's chair and twisting around to read the letter. His fingers brushed against Garrett's spine, and it took considerable self-control to keep from shivering. “Do you want something?”

Anders smirked and shifted closer. “Oh, always.”

Dammit. Garrett rested his elbow on the desk and leaned away to put a little distance between them. “Isn't there someone else you can bother?”

“Everyone else is gone rescuing kidnapped daughters. Or working.”

“ _I'm_ working,” Garrett pointed out.

“Not really,” Anders replied cheerfully. “You haven't been writing for the past several minutes.”

Garrett sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Oh, hey, I have an idea,” he said with false cheer.

“Hm?”

“Why don't you go up to the roof and see if being in a thunderstorm helps your lightning spells any?” Garrett suggested. “I'll even loan you my collection of lucky coppers.”

Anders stared down at him, blinking, then sighed and looked away. “And the worst part is, I actually considered it for about thirty seconds,” he said. “That's how bored I am.”

Garrett groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Please go away so I can finish my report.”

“Oh, fine.” Anders slid off the desk, the warm silk on his leg dragging against Garrett's arm. Pinpricks of heat burned into his skin where Anders's fingertips had rested. As soon as the other mage had flounced out into the hallway and closed the door behind him, Garrett let out a strangled groan and dropped his head to the desk.

It was pathetic, it really was, that he was letting Anders get to him this much. But he hadn't been with anyone since _well_ before the Blight, and he hadn't had the time since arriving in Amaranthine. There were more important things in his life besides getting laid. And that hadn't changed. He had the twins to look after and his work with the arlessa to focus on. Distractions were a bad idea. He had his priorities, and he wasn't about to rearrange them for a sarcastic, infuriating, charming, handsome, _frustrating_ blighted mage.

Garrett took a deep breath and sat up. He was going to finish his report and go home and barricade himself in his bedroom until the twins calmed down or the rain stopped. Assuming he still had a bedroom. Maker, they'd better not have burned the house down.

*

Much as he hated to sound like one of those sappy poets or bards, Anders found new things to enjoy about his freedom every day. Today, it had been a warm spring rain that he'd eventually gone out in, mud be damned, and the ability to get food whenever he wanted. The kitchen was always open, and he could leave his room or the infirmary and go get a snack any time of day or night without a single person stopping him.

He pushed open the kitchen door; Neria yelped in surprise and looked up from the towel-wrapped bundle on the table. Anders blinked at her. “Sorry?” he asked. “Should I come back later?”

“No, you're fine.”

“Damn right I am,” he agreed with a wink.

Neria chuckled and looked down. “Ah, well, so much for the surprise,” she said as the bundle moved under her hands and let out a muffled meow.

Anders gasped. “Is that...?” His question was answered as a kitten poked its head out of the towel, damp orange fur spiking up ridiculously.

“For you,” she said, sliding the whole bundle across the table to him as he sat down in the chair opposite her.

He was grinning like an idiot, and he didn't care in the least. Anders was vaguely aware of Neria smiling at him as he carefully extracted the kitten from the towel. “Where'd you find him?” he asked, cradling the kitten in his arms. The kitten planted his forepaws on Anders's chest and stretched up to sniff at his face. Anders automatically bent his head to give the kitten easier access.

“Out in the courtyard,” she said. “Poor little guy was soaked through. I figured you'd like him.”

“I _love_ him,” Anders gushed. “But are you-- are you sure you don't want him? You did like Mister Wiggums...”

She chuckled. “Not as much as you,” she replied. “I'm more of a dog person, anyway. And I... I'm not quite ready to replace Topher, yet.”

Anders nodded and reached across the table to squeeze her hand. She'd told him about her mabari, a survivor of Ostagar and nearly the entire Blight, who'd fallen in the battle of Denerim. And he knew how much losing a pet hurt-- abomination or no, he'd missed Wiggums terribly after the cat had died.

The kitten batted a loose feather on Anders's shoulder; he grinned and pulled it off, tossing it onto the table. The kitten launched himself after it, pouncing on it with a tiny growl and rolling onto his back. Anders laughed. “Do you think it's all right for me to keep him?” he asked, glancing at Neria. “I mean, we do get into some nasty scraps.”

She shrugged. “He can stay at the Keep,” she said. “Or in your pack.”

The feather drifted off the edge of the table, and the kitten stopped, staring down at it, then turned and mewled pitifully at Anders. He immediately leaned over and picked up the feather, brushing it over the kitten's head before tossing it away. The kitten bounded down the table. Anders grinned. Oh, he was a lost cause, all right. Nothing was going to part him from the little orange tabby.

He reached out and scooped up the kitten. “I think I'll call you Ser Pounce-a-Lot,” he decided. “What do you think about that, kitty?”

Ser Pounce-a-Lot meowed his approval and headbutted Anders's chin. He gently hugged the kitten, smiling so hard his face hurt. His very own cat. Easily one of the best things about freedom yet.

*

 _25 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

“You are in my way, Garrett.”

Garrett elbowed his brother in the side. “I'm helping!”

“In. My. Way. I don't want your help, I can chop onions myself.” Carver waved him away from the table with a large knife. Garrett held up his hands and retreated to his chair, leaning down to scratch Rascal's head. He was a decent cook, especially over a campfire, but Carver was _good_. Even Garrett could admit that. While he and Bethany had been off with Father, learning spells, Carver had stayed with Mother. She'd taught him all her recipes. It still made his chest ache, sometimes, to come into a house that smelled like _home_ , like a farmhouse in Lothering that had long since burned to the ground.

But tonight Carver was making one of his recipes, a vegetable stew with a truly Orlesian number of spices. Despite the questionable nationalism, it was delicious, and Garrett tended to keep his patriotic comments to a minimum.

“Garrett, I can't believe you,” Bethany scolded as she came into the kitchen. “Carver, do you want help?”

“Oh, thanks, Beth,” he said. “Garrett's just been _sitting_ there.” Bethany shook her head and slid the cutting board to the side, roughly chopping the onion while Garrett sputtered. Carver smirked at him and went back to measuring out spices.

“This is the thanks I get,” Garrett said. “I find a house and a job...”

“A job you don't let us help with anymore,” Carver pointed out. Bethany nodded and wiped at her watering eyes.

Garrett sighed. “When I have something for you to do, I'll let you know,” he said. “Right now I've sort of hit a dead end.” What they really needed was to intercept more letters from the conspirators, but neither he nor Ser Tamra had been able to turn up anything of use.

“Maybe Surana shouldn't have had Guy executed,” Carver said. He stood to dump the bowl of spices into the pot. “He'd have talked eventually.”

“If a week with the threat of execution hanging over his head didn't work, then he wasn't ever gonna talk,” Garrett replied.

Carver tossed a potato at him; Garrett caught it with only minor fumbling. “Maybe if you'd kept him alive his friends would have broken in and tried to rescue him,” Carver argued. “Could've used him as bait.”

“I don't think encouraging people to break into the Keep is a good plan.”

Bethany chuckled and dragged the back of her hand across her eyes. “He's got a point, Carver.” She poured the onions into the pot. “Should I light this?”

“After Garrett finishes with the potatoes.”

“I've only got one-- hey!” Garrett barely managed to catch the second potato. Carver laughed. Garrett scowled and twisted his hand in the air, paralyzing his brother.

“Garrett!” Bethany kicked his leg.

Garrett rolled his eyes and released the spell. Carver glared at him and stomped off to the pantry. “So, Bethany,” Garrett said, deliberately turning his attention to his sweeter and less obnoxious sibling, “I hear you're terrorizing the recruits with fireballs these days?”

She nodded. “Surana wants them to be prepared to fight darkspawn emissaries or enemy mages,” she said. “I get to cast at them while they're sparring or whatever. It's fun.” She grinned. “She told me to talk to them afterward so they're not scared of me or whatever. Most of them are pretty nice.”

Carver stomped back to the table with a handful of carrots and started peeling them viciously. Garrett slid the chopped pieces of one potato over to Bethany; she scooped them up and added them to the stew. “Anyone there I should keep an eye on?” Garrett asked.

Bethany rolled her eyes. “I'm twenty, Garrett. That's a little old to be playing the overprotective big brother card.”

“That wasn't a no.” He leaned forward and stared at her expectantly. Rascal sat up, imitating his pose, the dog's eyes just barely visible over the top of the table.

“No, there's nobody in the militia that you need to threaten with evisceration or maiming or whatever,” she said. “You big lunatics.”

“That's because Howe's not in the militia,” Carver muttered. Garrett's eyebrows shot up and Bethany turned red.

“Carver!” she hissed.

“Nathaniel Howe?” Garrett asked.

Bethany shook her head vigorously. “He's just making things up.”

“Oh, yeah?” Carver set down his knife. “Then why'd I see you mooning over him after practice yesterday?” He twirled a lock of hair around his finger and fluttered his eyelashes. “Oh, Ser Howe, my magic's really not that impressive, you're so skilled with a bow, you--” He cut off with a yelp as, presumably, Bethany kicked him.

“It doesn't _matter_ ,” Bethany said, slouching in her chair. “He's not interested. So don't go threatening him because then he'll _know_ and I... I'll set your bed on fire. With you in it.”

Garrett held up his hands in surrender. Carver, never one to take a hint, picked up his act again as he resumed chopping the carrots. “Oh, yes, Nathaniel, tell me more about your aim--”

“Shut up,” Bethany snapped. “The only reason you saw us is because you were coming back from talking with Garavel about joining the militia.”

Garrett recognized the ploy for what it was. Unfortunately for Carver, it was still effective. “What?” he asked, looking at his younger brother.

Carver glared back. “There's nothing else for me to do around here,” he grumbled. “I was in the army before. And Capt-- Seneschal Varel thinks I'd be good.”

“It's too dangerous,” Garrett said immediately.

“Oh, and it wasn't too dangerous during the damned Blight!?” Carver snapped. “You didn't seem to mind then.”

“Because I was there! So was Beth!” Garrett shook his head. “Darkspawn--”

“I know how to handle myself, Garrett.” Carver stabbed his knife into the table and threw the carrots into the pot. “You went off chasing after darkspawn for a bloody week. How is that not dangerous?”

“I was with three Wardens. Two of whom are mages and one of whom's a healer. Just going off into the countryside with swords and bows is too risky.”

Carver just glowered at the pot as he stirred the stew. “Beth, could you light the stove?” he asked, voice low and brittle.

Garrett sighed. “Look, maybe after the darkspawn are dealt with--”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

Bethany sent a burst of flame into the logs, watching until she was sure they'd caught, then slipped out of her chair. “C'mon, Garrett,” she said, not even bothering to fabricate an excuse to separate them. Garrett just heaved a sigh and followed her out into the front room, Rascal padding along behind him.


	4. Chapter Three

_26 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

“Can’t you just heal me?” Neria asked. Not whined. She was the arlessa of Amaranthine and the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. It would be inappropriate and disrespectful to imply that she was whining.

“I’m a mage, not a miracle worker, sweetheart,” Anders said, measuring out a spoonful of chopped elfroot into the potion. Ser Pounce-a-Lot peered down at him from his perch on the shelf over the workbench. “And _you_ are quite sick.”

She made a wheezing noise that Anders supposed was meant to be a sigh. “I can’t be sick,” she countered. “I have things to do.” She coughed. “Can’t you just make me stop coughing or whatever?”

“I _could_ ,” he replied. “But suppressing the symptoms would just make you feel healthy when you’re not, and then you’d get even sicker later on. I can’t in good conscience as a healer do that.”

“ _Please?_ ” 

Anders rolled his eyes. “Stop whining,” he said, tossing respect out the window. “You’re sick, you need to rest. This is what you get for stomping around in the rain rescued kidnapped princesses.” 

“She was a knight’s daughter,” Neria corrected. “Not a princess.” 

“Ah, so even less worthy of running around in the rain, then,” he said. He gave the potion a vigorous shake before passing it to Neria. “Drink that. The whole thing. No complaining about the taste.” 

She scrunched up her nose at him and tossed back the contents of the bottle. “Ack.” Neria made a face. “That’s awful.”

“What did I tell you about complaining?”

“Would it kill you to add some mint or something?”

Anders took the bottle back. “Mint cancels out the effects of elfroot.”

She blinked at him. “Really?”

“No. But I get a lot of joy out of watching the funny faces people make when they drink those potions.”

“You’re mean.”

He laughed as he set the bottle in a basin of water for cleaning and reuse. “I enjoy the little things in life, Nery.” He reached up and plucked Pounce from the shelf, then placed the kitten on his shoulder. Pounce gave his ear a thorough sniffing before settling into the feathers.

“Like my suffering.”

“Sometimes.” He grinned at her; she glared back and sneezed. “You need to go to bed.”

“I have work to do.”

“You have sleeping to do.” Anders offered her a hand up. “I will take you there myself if I have to.”

She chuckled weakly. “By which you mean you’ll have Oghren carry me.”

“I don’t want to make you any sicker. I’d get--”

The infirmary door banged open. “Hawke!” Neria said, rising.

“Well, yes, he’d probably do the trick.”

Hawke braced himself on the doorframe, panting for breath. “Ser Tamra’s dead,” he gasped.

“What!?” Neria demanded. “When? What happened?”

He shook his head. “Last night,” he said. Anders ghosted over to his desk and poured a mug of water from the pitcher he kept there. Pounce jumped down from his shoulder, landing on his stack of books with a light thud. “In Amaranthine. Couple of the guards found her dead on the street.” Anders walked back over and held out the mug; Hawke took it with a grateful nod. “Apparently it looked like she’d been beaten before they killed her.” He downed the water in three swallows and passed the mug back.

Neria closed her eyes for a moment. “Has there been an arrest?”

“Ser Temmerly and some of his men were caught running from the body with blood on their clothes,” Hawke said. “Not that it means much.”

Anders blinked, passing the mug from hand to hand. “That seems pretty conclusive to me,” he said.

“And to me, and to the guards,” Hawke agreed. “But there’s no proof. Which, according to the message,” he held up a letter, “is what he keeps saying. ‘There’s no proof.’ They were all unarmed, though it would have been easy enough for them to toss a weapon—it’s all circumstantial.”

“He hasn’t denied the murder,” Neria said.

“He hasn’t confessed, either,” Hawke replied. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “She was supposed to meet with me today. She must have found something and they had her killed.” His hand tightened on the doorframe.

Neria pinched the bridge of her nose and cleared her throat, trying to swallow a cough. “Where are they being held?”

“The cells in the guard barracks.” Hawke nodded at the infirmary windows. “The messenger’s still outside if there’s anything you want to send back.”

She sighed. “Have Temmerly transferred here,” she said. “Get me a report by tomorrow. I need to know everything about him and what happened.”

“Of course.” Hawke nodded and pushed off the doorframe. “Thank you, m’lady.”

Neria looked up at Anders. “ _Now_ will you deal with the cough?”

“Later,” he said. “Once you have to be in front of important people. Right now--”

“I’m going to talk to Varel.”

Anders sighed and looked over at Pounce as Neria marched out. “No one ever listens to me.” Pounce just continued cleaning his ears. “Including you.”

*

 _29 Bloomingtide 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett ran a hand down the front of his tunic, smoothing away imaginary wrinkles. Bethany had insisted that he invest in some kind of formal clothes when he’d started working directly with the nobility towards the end of the Blight. He didn’t like going anywhere without armor or weapons, and he was fairly certain that he looked a little ridiculous. Carver agreed, and Bethany’s assurances otherwise didn’t help much. She was his little sister. She had to say he looked good.

The throne room was crowded with guards, prisoners, and petitioners, all waiting for the arlessa’s justice. Garrett had greeted the few people he recognized and smiled through the condescending “my, aren’t you moving up in the world” comments. Now he was lurking by the throne, hoping that Surana would just show up already so he could go home and get out of his ridiculous clothes.

“Don’t you clean up nice,” Anders purred into his ear. Garrett managed not to jump out of his skin, but he did twitch, which was enough to draw an amused chuckle out of the other man.

Garrett exhaled slowly. “What are you doing here?”

Anders shrugged. “Making sure Neria doesn’t collapse,” he said with a frown. “She’s doing better, but she’s still sick. And it’s important that none of them,” he inclined his head at the crowd, “see that.”

“Mm.” Garrett nodded in agreement. “Any idea where she is?”

“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“You don’t know?” Garrett arched an eyebrow.

Anders smirked and folded his arms loosely over his stomach. “You’re her adviser,” he said. “I’m just the healer.”

“She’s your patient.”

“And she’s a _terrible_ one,” Anders replied. “She used to let me take care of her in the Tower, but now it’s all ‘I’m the arlessa,’ ‘I’m the Commander,’ ‘I can’t sleep, I have Important Things to do.’”

“Well… she is, she is, and she does.”

Anders heaved a melodramatic sigh. “I should have known you’d take her side.”

“Don’t worry, if I get sick, I’ll let you take care of me,” Garrett said dryly. It took a couple moments and a sly, pleased smile from Anders for him to realize what he’d just said. He sighed and laced his fingers together behind his back to keep from smacking himself in the forehead.

The side doors slammed open. “All rise!” Varel called, striding into the room on a wave of silverite and gravitas. “The Warden-Commander and liege-lord of all Amaranthine enters.”

Surana walked in after him, her armor polished and her head held high, but that didn't hide the flush of fever in her cheeks or her labored breathing. “Damn,” Anders swore under his breath, as Varel called the first prisoner forward. “Maker, I hope this doesn’t take too long...” He imitated Garrett's pose, hands behind his back, and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, his gaze fixed on Surana.

Garrett glanced back and forth between them. “Anders?”

A faint, glowing aura pulsed around Anders for a moment. “I need to concentrate,” he said, voice strained. Garrett frowned and looked away. Probably some healer thing-- Maker knew none of the mages in his family ever had a knack for creation magic. Surana straightened up and seemed to take renewed interest in the petitioners before her.

Garrett tuned out the shepherds and soldiers brought before the arlessa. There were only two cases he was concerned about-- Ser Temmerly, obviously, as well as a pair of nobles involved in a land dispute. He'd had dealings with Lady Packton before, none of them friendly; he suspected that she at least knew something of the conspiracy, if she wasn't directly involved. He was trying to keep an eye on who she spoke with, and he'd already lined up meetings with the servants after this court to see what they'd overheard while collecting cloaks and offering drinks.

Beside him, Anders's breathing steadily grew heavier. Garrett wanted to ask if he was all right, but that would likely break his concentration, and he wasn't entirely sure what would happen after that. He idly entertained ideas of a detonation of healing energy sweeping over the hall, making everyone feel happy and satisfied with their ruler and decide that assassinating her would be a bad idea.

“I prefer to speak for myself.” Garrett glanced up at the familiar snap of Lady Packton's voice. “The old arl Rendon Howe made certain promises to me. Some of these he committed to paper. I was given the right to the incomes of the southern bridge.”

“And what part did you take in Howe's conspiracies, eh, Liza? To get such a fruitful prize.” Ser Darren, Garrett recalled after a moment. “It is _my_ land she seeks. Taken from me because I was one of the few nobles to stand against Teryn Loghain.”

Varel leaned down and spoke quietly to Surana for a few moments. She nodded and glanced over at Garrett, summoning him to her side with a tilt of her head. “Yes?” he asked, angling himself so he had his back to the nobles.

“Varel says the contract is legal,” she said. “And that Darren is someone we can't afford to alienate. What do you think?”

He shook his head. “If you deny Packton's claim, it might push her to join this little conspiracy, if she's not involved already,” he said. “Darren I know less about, I'm afraid. It might not be a bad time to try appeasing your enemies.”

Surana sighed. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Temmerly is next, so stay close.” She paused for a moment. “And tell Anders to stop it, I'll be fine.”

Garrett nodded and stepped back. “Surana says she's fine.”

Anders didn't reply for almost half a minute, during which time Surana offered to pay Darren for the value of the bridge. “She's a liar,” Anders finally said, voice low. “Not fine.”

Packton and Darren stepped aside. “Bring in Ser Temmerly,” Varel called.

The man had been nicknamed 'the ox' for fairly apt reasons, Garrett thought as he tilted his head back to look up at him. Captain Garavel explained the charges against him. Temmerly didn't appear concerned. “You dare too much, Captain,” he said smoothly. “I am noble born and will not submit to your accusations.”

“You were caught fleeing the scene of the crime while Ser Tamra's blood was still hot!”

Temmerly shrugged. “There is much traffic on the roads. Not all of it human. And it can be so dangerous at night.”

“That it can,” Surana agreed, arms folded over her chest. “But given that you and your men were the only ones in the area at the time of her murder...”

“You have nothing on me, Commander,” Temmerly said. “It is the word of commoners--” He indicated Garavel and Garrett with a sweep of his hand, “against mine.”

Surana arched an eyebrow. “You forget where your liege comes from, ser,” she said. “I am both a mage and an elf. Your ‘commoners’ would otherwise far outrank me. But the Maker moves in mysterious ways, doesn't He.” Temmerly blinked at her. She pressed her lips together and nodded. “There is not enough evidence for me to order an execution. We will continue the investigation. Ser Temmerly, given the nature of the accusations, you and your men will be imprisoned for the duration.”

“What? You can't do this!” Temmerly bellowed, for lack of a better word. Anders flickered slightly, but the aura vanished again after a moment.

Varel's smirk was more than a little malicious. “Oh, but she very much can,” he said. “Guards!” Four soldiers escorted Temmerly from the hall. “This session of the arling's court is concluded,” Varel announced. Surana was moving towards the door almost before he'd finished speaking.

Garrett watched her leave; as soon as she disappeared, he lightly tapped Anders on the shoulder. “She's gone,” he said.

Anders gasped and sagged in place, fumbling blindly for something to lean on. “Ow,” he muttered, resting a hand on the throne. “If she tries to leave her bed for the next two days, I swear...”

“What were you doing?” Garrett asked.

“Can't very well have a mage glowing during court,” Anders said. “So I just, you know, didn't glow.” He glanced up at Garrett and frowned. “You never learned how to do that?”

“We didn't all have your fancy Circle education,” he retorted.

Anders shook his head. “Just seems like it would have been a handy trick for apostates.” He exhaled and straightened up. “Then again, I knew how to do it and I've gotten caught seven times more than you, so.” He flashed Garrett a grin and started towards the door.

“Will you be all right?” Garrett asked, following a few steps behind him.

The grin morphed into a leering smirk. “Well, some company certainly wouldn't hurt.”

Garrett groaned. “Is there anything that can make you stop flirting?” Anders frowned and tapped his finger against his lips in a pantomime of deep thought. He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head. Garrett rolled his eyes at the act. “Thought so.”

“I'm sure there must be _something_ but it's just not coming to mind now.”

“Good night, Anders.”

*

 _1 Justinian 9:32 Dragon_

Anders had done his fair share of teaching in the Circle-- with mages who specialized in creation magic so rare, even someone with his reputation was allowed to train the apprentices in the basics of healing. Ordinarily students lacked interest, rather than talent, especially by the time he wound up mentoring them. He'd never been in the situation of having to explain to someone that they just weren't cut out for healing.

“I'm sorry,” Bethany said, twisting her fingers in her lap. The two of them were sitting on the grass outside the practice fields. Bethany had been teaching the soldiers an appropriate fear of fireballs, while Anders had offered healing when they weren’t able to dodge fast enough. Ser Pounce-a-Lot was riding around in Anders’s pocket and generally being adorable. Even a few of the soldiers hadn’t been able to resist giving him a chin-scratch.

Anders flashed Bethany a quick smile as he re-healed the soldier's arm. “Maybe you just need to practice more?” he suggested. It might work, if she could learn the precision required for healing. It was the difference between being skilled with a scalpel or with a broadsword-- Anders could apply his tight control to lightning just as easily, but treating healing magic like a blast of flame tended to end badly. He closed up the wound and sent the soldier on his way with a nod.

She sighed and shook her head. “I just want to be able to help, while you're gone,” she said. “There's not going to be anyone in the infirmary, and if we go out on jobs of our own...”

“Velanna knows some healing magic,” Anders said, gesturing at the elf. She was at the far end of the practice field, attacking the practice dummies with a ferocity that made the soldiers give her a wide berth as they returned to the barracks. A few of them smiled and waved at Bethany-- a testament to her friendly nature, Anders thought, that they'd be so polite to a mage who'd just been hounding them with ice and flame.

“But then Garrett will take her instead of me,” she said. “And I don't want to give him any more excuses to leave me behind.”

Anders smirked. “Most people would prefer to stay home instead of go hunting darkspawn.”

She shrugged, plucking at the grass. “We're family,” she said. “We stick together.”

“Mm.” The Hawke certainly did seem to take it as a matter of course that they wouldn't be separated willingly. Anders suspected that Neria was leaving Garrett behind on their next adventure-- out to a place called the _Blackmarsh_ , Maker preserve him-- at his request, and not just because she wanted him to continue investigating the assassination conspiracy. “There’s only so much I can teach in two days, though.”

“I know.” Bethany sighed again.

“I’ll be making potions tomorrow, if you want to help with that,” he offered.

She brightened up and nodded. “That I can do,” she said. “Father taught me a bit of herbalism.”

Well, that’d be something, at least. Anders leaned back on his elbows and drew in a deep breath of fresh air. Pounce wriggled out of his robes and crawled up his stomach before curling up into a neat ball in the center of his chest. Anders grinned and stroked the kitten’s head with his thumb. “What potions do you know how to make?” he asked. Bethany didn’t reply. He glanced over to see her staring into the distance, a faint but lovestruck smile on her face. Following her gaze led to Nathaniel, who was drawing back his bow to fire at one of the targets. “Bethany,” Anders sing-songed.

“Hm?” She turned her head towards him but didn’t take her eyes off the archer.

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

“Uh…” She finally looked away from Nathaniel. “I, uh, um…” Her ears turned red.

Anders laughed. Pounce didn’t seem to appreciate the disturbance, as he dug his claws into Anders’s chest. “Can’t say I blame you,” he said. “He’s quite easy on the eyes.”

Bethany’s eyes widened. “Oh!” She looked away. “I, uh, I didn’t know you were interested…”

“Oh, I'm interested in _everybody_ ,” he said with a wink. “But it doesn't go any further than skin deep. So by all means, my dear: go for it.”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure he even remembers I exist,” she said. “We’ve only talked once. And he’s nobility. I’m an apostate.”

“I think I read a novel with that plot once,” Anders mused. Bethany laughed. “He’s a Grey Warden now,” he continued. “Not a prince or anything. If you’re not intimidated by the brooding, don’t let the noble blood stop you.”

Bethany smiled and sighed. “If only it were that easy.”

“See, the trick is to think about somethin' that makes ya really angry.” Anders glanced up as Oghren sauntered towards them, apparently advising Carver on... something. Hawke strolled along behind them, smirking.

“Oh, I'm sure I can come up with something,” Carver drawled.

Hawke's smirk only grew. “Why, Carver, what could possibly fill you with that kind of rage?”

Carver just shot him a withering glare. “Who'd you want to spar with first, Oghren?” he said, pointedly ignoring his brother. “Me or him?”

“Sod it, I'll take you both together!”

Bethany laughed. “Good luck, boys!”

Hawke glanced over and arched an eyebrow at them. “Hello Bethany. Anders.” He folded his arms, looming a bit. “What're you up to?”

“Anders was trying to teach me some healing spells,” Bethany said. Hawke shot Anders a suspicious glare; Bethany rolled her eyes. “Oh, what's your problem now, Garrett?”

“Nothing,” Hawke replied, slowly and deliberately pulling his staff from the straps on his back. “I'm sure Anders has only the best of intentions.”

Anders smirked. “Towards Bethany? My intentions are pure. Towards _other_ members of the Hawke family...” He raked Hawke with his eyes. Maker, but that leather armor did wonderful things for the man. Hawke's skin flushed under his beard. “Besides, isn't Nathaniel the one you should be—ow!” He rubbed his bruised shin with his foot and shot Bethany a wounded look. She scowled at him, looking eerily like her elder brother for a moment.

Hawke sighed. “I'm going to go pummel a dwarf now,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Anders, don't do anything that would make me want to kill you.”

“And what would that be, exactly?” Anders called as Hawke walked away. “Can I get an alphabetized list?”

Bethany giggled and shook her head. “He likes you,” she said.

Anders snorted. “You're just saying that because I told him about Nathaniel.”

“He already knew,” Bethany replied. “And the kicking was your punishment for bringing it up.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But he likes you. I can tell.”

“Really?” Anders moved Pounce from his chest to his lap. The dozing kitten barely seemed to notice the move. “How?”

She shrugged, looking out at the practice field as the three men took up their positions, weapons readied. Oghren gave some order about no 'finger-wiggling;' Hawke grinned, but didn't agree one way or another. “I just can,” Bethany said. “This isn't the first time I've seen him smitten with someone, after all.”

“Huh.” Anders watched as the Hawke brothers attacked, Carver leading the charge while Hawke moved into flanking. Oghren smacked Carver in the knees with the flat of his blade; the younger man staggered but stayed upright. “I figured I just annoyed him.”

“Well, you do,” she said, smirking. “He complains about you. But complaining about you means he’s _talking_ about you. A lot. You can ask Carver, it’s been driving him crazy.” She grinned as her twin jumped to dodge another axe swing. “And if you really annoyed him, he’d be avoiding you.”

Anders grinned. Hawke and Carver both dodged backwards to avoid Oghren’s whirlwind spin; for someone so heavily encumbered and so frequently intoxicated, the dwarf was _fast_. “Well, that’s promising.”

“Of course, if you break his heart, I’ll set you on fire.” Bethany flashed him a menacing smile.

He looked away. “I think your brother knows I’m not looking for anything involving _hearts_ ,” he said. “My interests lie a bit… lower.”

She made a noise of disgust. “Okay, stop, I do not need to be hearing these things about Garrett,” she said. “Just be—oh, I don’t know. I’m not very good at the protective big sister thing.”

“Probably because you’re the youngest,” Anders said with a grin.

Bethany shot him a surprised look. “How’d you know?”

“I didn’t, but I also had a fifty-fifty chance of being right.”

She laughed. “And here you said you weren’t good at gambling.”

“I’m all right at gambling, I’m just wretched at cards,” he clarified. “Some of the apprentices made a list of my tells once. It went on for a page and a half.”

Bethany snickered. On the practice field, Hawke scrambled to his feet, while Carver tried to get in past the dwarf’s wild swings to hit him with the pommel of his blade. Oghren slammed his axe into the dirt; the vibrations sent Carver to his knees. Hawke staggered and almost tripped. Oghren swung the axe around, and the edge of it caught Hawke’s arm, leaving a deep, bloody gash behind. Hawke swore and threw his good arm out, instinctively casting a paralysis spell on Oghren.

“All right, time out!” Anders shouted as he got to his feet, automatically scooping up Pounce and tucking him into a pocket of his robes.

Hawke grimaced in pain and walked towards them, blood spattering in the dirt. Bethany huffed out a sigh and snatched his staff from his hand. “Lying in the dirt for a few minutes isn’t going to hurt it any,” she said. On the practice field, the paralysis spell ended, freeing a disgruntled-looking Oghren.

Hawke clamped his now-free hand over the wound. “It’s an heirloom,” he said. “I don’t want to risk it.”

“I wouldn’t trust priceless heirlooms around Oghren either,” Anders said. He reached out a hand to Hawke, then paused and glanced at Bethany. “Do you want to try?”

“Um…” She bit her lip and hesitated, glancing nervously at her brother.

Hawke heaved a sigh. “Please decide which one of you is healing me before I bleed out,” he said.

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Anders said. “C’mon, Bethany, it’ll be fine.”

She sighed and passed her brother’s staff to her left hand, then placed her right on his arm. For a second, there was nothing, then her hand flared with blue-white healing energy. Anders winced. Not precise at all.

“Um.” Hawke swallowed hard and glanced at his sister. “Thanks.”

Her shoulders sagged and she withdrew her hand. “I messed it up again, didn’t I?”

“No, it’s—it’s fine,” Hawke assured her. “The bleeding stopped…”

Anders replaced Bethany’s hand with his own. “You did _better_ ,” he said, not feeling any familial requirement to lie. “But you’re still just sort of blasting the injury with energy and hoping for the best. You’ve got to target it more precisely.” He cast a healing spell of his own, repairing the damaged muscle below the skin. Hawke let out a muted sigh of relief. Anders shook his head. The man probably would have gone right back to fighting with a half-healed arm just to spare his sister’s feelings.

“Thanks,” Hawke said, smiling at Bethany. “I bet if you practice more, you—gyah!” He jumped and looked down at Pounce, who had climbed out of Anders’s pocket and launched himself at Hawke’s leg.

Bethany covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her giggles; Anders didn’t bother with such social niceties and laughed outright as he crouched down to detach the kitten. Pounce yowled and dug his claws in as Anders tried to tug him loose. “Stop it,” Anders scolded. “He’s not a tree. You can’t climb him.”

“Thank the Maker I’m wearing my leathers today,” Hawke commented dryly.

Anders was quite grateful for that as well, given his current position nearly eye-level with Hawke’s waist. “C’mon, you,” he murmured, resting one hand against Hawke’s leg as he pried the kitten off. As soon as Pounce’s claws came free, he sent a light and hopefully enjoyable spark of lighting dancing across the other man’s skin. Hawke drew in a sharp breath and twitched; Anders affected a look of complete innocence as he stood up. “There, isn’t that better?” Anders asked Pounce, cradling the kitten against his chest. “Who’s a good kitty?”

He spared Hawke a brief glance. Hawke was glaring at him, skin flushed again. Anders winked and turned his attention back to the kitten, thoroughly scratching Pounce under the chin. Bethany groaned. “Could you two _not_ do that while I’m standing here?” she asked.

“Do what?” Anders asked with false innocence, at the same time that Hawke insisted “We’re not doing _anything!_ ”

She rolled her eyes. “Go back to practicing before Carver pitches a fit,” Bethany said, shooing her brother away. Hawke reclaimed his staff and stomped back to the practice field. “ _You_ ,” Bethany began, sidling over to Anders, “are terrible.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” Anders replied. She opened her mouth to reply; he held out Pounce. “Look, a cute kitty.”

She laughed and scratched Pounce behind the ears. “You’re still terrible,” she said without rancor.

“I know, I know, I’m a wretch.”

*

 _7 Justinian 9:32 Dragon_

Vigil’s Keep certainly had its advantages—a well-paying job, a spacious house, the freedom to use his magic whenever he wanted—but there were times when Garrett missed Amaranthine. He’d taken to the city far better than Carver or Bethany; they were happier at the Keep (well, Bethany was happier, and Carver _seemed_ less grouchy), and the benefits of living there far outweighed Garrett’s own desires for a bit more scum and villainy in his life.

He leaned against the wall outside the guard barracks, arms folded, and squinted up at the bright summer sun. Rascal sat at his feet, panting happily, while Bethany and Carver wandered the nearby market stalls. Constable Aidan had sent a request to the Keep, asking for help in eradicating the smugglers. Surana had dumped the job in his lap before absconding to the Blackmarsh. Garrett rather suspected that this might be a test of loyalty; during the Blight and the war, the smugglers had been the only ones who’d been able to get anything into Amaranthine. They’d jacked up the prices, certainly, but at least there had been food to purchase. He’d worked with them more than a few times during that first year.

But now they were a problem, inflating prices and keeping a stranglehold on the city’s markets. Surana wanted them dealt with, so here he was, dealing with them. Or, more accurately, he was waiting for Aveline to put in an appearance so they could deal with them together.

The door swung open, and Aveline stepped out, glancing around briefly before spotting him. “Hawke,” she said with a polite nod.

“Aveline!” He grinned and pushed off the wall. “How is my favorite member of the guard today?”

“Suspicious of your motives, as always,” she said, looking deadly serious save for the sparkle in her eyes. “Is it just you?”

“No, I brought the kids,” he said, waving his arm over his head to catch Bethany’s attention. She waved back and started pulling Carver away from the weaponsmith.

“They’re twenty now, aren’t they?” Aveline asked. “That seems a bit old to be calling them kids.”

“I’m always going to be older than them, so they’re always going to be the kids,” Garrett replied sagely as the twins approached. Carver rolled his eyes; Bethany bounded over to give Aveline a brief hug.

“So,” Garrett said, clapping his hands together. “Smugglers! Any ideas on where we should start?”

Aveline shrugged. “They’re _your_ friends.”

“I don’t know that I’d call them friends,” he corrected. “More like acquaintances. Or people who work with other people they hate.” Aveline just arched an eyebrow at him. Garrett sighed. “There’s a guy who works in the market,” he said. “East end. I’ll see if he’s willing to talk.”

The man wasn’t willing to talk, and was in fact so unwilling that he led them on a merry chase through Amaranthine for the better part of an hour. He kept finding _friends_ who were willing to jump in front of them and start fights, and in such a public space, Bethany and Garrett couldn’t cast a single spell. They finally caught up with him at a small, abandoned house just outside the city walls. The man was frantically fumbling with a set of keys, trying to get the door open, when Garrett dropped a paralysis spell on him.

“Now then,” Garrett said, plucking the keys from the man's stiff fingers, “was that so hard?”

“Yes,” Bethany muttered, a bit winded.

Aveline sighed. “Let him go so I can arrest him,” she said.

Garrett nodded and released the spell. The man spun around, hands up. “Please don't,” he begged. “I-I-I'll tell you everything. Just don't arrest me...”

“You're a criminal,” Aveline said, removing manacles from her belt. “I'm taking you back to the constable.”

In an instant, his demeanor changed, from frightened to furious. “Stop her,” he snarled at Garrett. Rascal snarled back. “Stop her or I-I-I'll tell the Templars about you.” Garrett drew in a sharp, hissing breath; Aveline didn't hesitate, still moving towards the man. “You and your sister.”

He didn't see Carver move at first, only felt the shifting air when his brother darted forward and swung his sword. The smuggler collapsed, blood pouring from the wound across his chest and neck. “Carver!” Aveline shouted, eyes wide. Bethany winced and looked away.

Carver shrugged and stared at Aveline. “He was resisting arrest,” he replied. “He was a threat and we acted in self-defense.”

She glanced over at Garrett, who shrugged. “Dammit, Hawke,” she muttered. “Fine. Into the house.”

Garrett nodded and herded Bethany inside, shielding her from the sight of the still-bleeding corpse as best he could. The house was small and sparsely furnished. “Look for a trapdoor,” Garrett said. “Probably leads down to the tunnels.” Aveline folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Theoretically,” he added with a weak smile. Rascal put his nose to the floor and slowly moved across the floor, sniffling vigorously.

The glare intensified. Bethany sighed and tilted her head towards the second room. “C’mon, Aveline,” she said. “Let’s see what we can find.”

With a final, disapproving head-shake, Aveline followed Bethany out of the room, leaving the Hawke brothers alone. Garrett grinned at Carver and punched his shoulder. “You almost got us arrested, you big lug,” he said affectionately.

Carver rolled his eyes and turned towards a stack of crates. “Aveline wouldn’t arrest us,” he replied, kicking one of the boxes aside. “Besides, he _was_ a threat.”

“Aw, look at you, all protective,” Garrett cooed.

“Just of Bethany,” Carver replied without looking up. “If he’d left it at you I’d have let it go.”

“You’re an ass,” Garrett said, still in the same baby-talk tone.

“Learned from the best.”

“Garrett! Carver!” Bethany called. “Back here.”

Garrett trotted to the back room, Carver on his heels. Aveline tossed a cheap, moth-eaten rug aside, revealing a trap door. “It’s like they weren’t even trying,” she commented.

Garrett chuckled and crouched down to unlock the door. A rickety wooden ladder descended into darkness. He sighed. “Flames, what I wouldn’t give for Anders and his ridiculous little spell wisps right about now,” he muttered.

“Anders?” Aveline asked.

Garrett glanced up, noting Bethany’s smirk and Carver’s annoyed scowl, and shrugged. “One of the Wardens at the Keep,” he explained. “Another mage.” He straightened up and looked around the room, hoping that the smugglers kept torches or lanterns on hand. “You could meet him, you know, if you ever came out to visit us.”

“Too much to do here,” Aveline replied. “And before you ask again, no, I’m not taking a job at the Keep.”

Garrett reached over a large crate and grabbed at the handle of a lantern. “We could use you out there,” he said. The metal lantern was a bit dented, but it still held oil, and he passed it to Bethany to light. “You and Varel could terrorize the recruits together.”

She shook her head. “I’m needed here,” she replied. “The guard’s stretched too thin as it is. And with the soldiers on the roads instead of around the city, we’re playing militia, too.”

“Amaranthine’s got walls,” Carver said, arms folded over his chest, as he quoted Varel almost word-for-word. “The rest of the arling isn’t so protected.”

Garrett took the lantern back from Bethany. “Let’s put the discussion on hold while we descend into the dark, scary tunnels,” he suggested. He held the lantern over the hole in the floor; the weak flame barely illuminated the shadowy tunnel awaiting them. “ _Really_ wish Anders was here,” he muttered, and started to climb down.

*

Anders really wished he was in Amaranthine. Or in the Keep. Or pretty much _anywhere_ besides the Blackmarsh. Even the blighted Circle was starting to sound appealing in comparison to the mosquitoes and sinkholes and mud. All three of which seemed to come as a set, Anders had found, after stepping on what looked like solid ground and sinking into mud up to his knees. The bugs had nibbled on his arms and neck while Neria and Oghren had pulled him out. He was very glad he’d moved Pounce to his pack, rather than keep him in his pocket.

“So… people actually lived here,” he said. “Voluntarily? It wasn’t a prison colony or something?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “In all the stories, there was a thriving village in the center of the marsh,” he replied. “Until one day everyone just… disappeared.”

“Well, of _course_ they did,” Anders muttered. “What else could you expect? That’s like naming a place The Fields of Agonizing Slaughter and then being surprised when demons eat the entire town.”

Ahead of them, Neria snorted and shook her head. “We should be getting close to the village,” she said. “Hopefully Kristoff did _something_ intelligent and holed up there.” Her estimation of the missing Warden’s wisdom had been dropping steadily ever since they’d reached the borders of the swamp. Apparently, haring off alone after raiding bands of darkspawn was a quick way to lose her respect.

Though, in the man’s defense, they had yet to find any darkspawn. Perhaps he’d torn through the swamp, a one-man army slaying all in his path. That, or there were no darkspawn, and he’d fallen into a sinkhole and been devoured by insects. A tragic end. Anders vowed that if the latter were true, he’d make up a story that sounded a bit more like the former. Out of respect for a deceased comrade and all that. Perhaps that would rouse his latent sense of Wardenly duty.

Anders trudged along behind the others, following Neria’s footsteps in order to avoid any more sinkholes, and idly daydreamed about his future days spreading the legend of Kristoff, the Lone Warden Who Most Certainly Had Not Drowned. The fantasies started in varying locales—taverns, fancy parties, wealthy parlors—but they kept ending in the same place: his bed, with him telling the story to Hawke in some ill-advised post-coital chat.

Maker, but he was going to be disappointed when Kristoff turned out to be alive.

He shook his head and tried to go back to fantasies of Hawke in his bed, but something nagged at him, a sense of general wrongness that wouldn’t let him be. The air around him felt thicker, thicker than early summer humidity in a swamp would account for, and there were glimmers of light and movement just out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, holy Andraste…” Neria breathed, coming to an abrupt halt on the path. Anders looked up and recoiled a few steps, acting on a bone-deep instinct that screamed at him to get away.

“What _is_ that?” Nathaniel asked, staring at the rippling wall of green-black light stretching across the left-hand path.

“A tear in the Veil,” Neria said, sounding torn between horror and awe. She took a few steps towards it; Anders wanted to follow, if only to grab her shoulders and drag her away, but he couldn’t bring himself to move any closer to it. Something purple and gold moved on the other side of the tear, and unearthly laughter echoed faintly in the marsh. Anders shuddered.

“What happens if we tried to… cross it?” Nathaniel asked.

“I don’t think we’d be able to,” Neria replied. “But let’s not test the theory, hm? Given that the last time anyone physically entered the Fade it started the Blights.”

“Dwarves aren’t meant to be in the Fade, anyway,” Oghren pointed out. “Who knows what’d happen if I ended up in there?”

“Nightmares of blood and cheap ale-breath the world over,” Anders said with false lightness. “Neria’s right, we should go.”

Neria stared at the rippling light for a few seconds more, then turned away, leading them back along the path. The feeling of wrongness only got worse as they continued deeper into the marsh.

“There it is,” Nathaniel said, gesturing at crumbling stone walls looming up out of the swamp. “The village of Blackmarsh.”

“Charming,” Anders murmured. “I think I’ll buy a summer home here.”

Neria drew her sword as they approached the gates. “Darkspawn?” Oghren asked eagerly, hefting his axe.

She shook her head. “Just caution. Lots of cover and corners in there. I don’t want us caught off-guard.” A few steps past the gates, she paused, then kicked at a dark shape on the ground. Anders moved close enough to see the rotting hulk of a hurlock.

“I guess that confirms it, then,” he said miserably. “The darkspawn are here.”

Oghren peered at the corpse. “One a’ Kristoff’s kills, maybe?” he suggested.

“Maybe,” she said. “It’s been dead a while.”

“How can you tell?” Anders asked. “They looked half-rotted even when they’re still walking around.”

She flashed a thin smile at him. “Spend a year chasing darkspawn around Ferelden and you learn a thing or two,” she replied. “Come on. We’ll do a sweep through the village. I don’t want anything coming around behind us.”

“I don’t sense any darkspawn,” Anders said, following her down the main road. “What else could there--”

A high, shrieking howl answered his question. Gaunt, twisted creatures with faces like wolves and claws like daggers came loping out of the shadows towards them. Werewolves, Anders realized after a few seconds of panicked staring. He’d only ever seen pictures of them, illustrations in his history textbook. He’d tuned out those lessons, as they’d mostly been little more than a litany of reasons why magic was a curse and mages were evil. Now, as he cast a repulsion glyph around his feet, Anders found himself desperately scrabbling through his memory, trying to recall if the history lesson had included any practical information about actually killing the bloody beasts.

Two of the creatures charged him and were promptly hurled backwards by the glyph’s power. Anders grinned and blasted them with lightning while they were down. Oghren and Neria were tearing through the rest of the werewolves, while Nathaniel—standing on flat ground with the rest of them, for once—fired arrow after arrow at the beasts.

There were still three werewolves up and fighting, despite deep and bloody wounds, when the repulsion glyph faded. Anders cursed under his breath and fell back a few paces, praying that none of them would notice him. In keeping with his standard luck, one of the werewolves broke off from Oghren and charged. Painfully aware of the fragile kitten in his pack, Anders stood his ground and aimed a blast of cold at the beast. If that didn’t hold it, even for a few moments, he was in a lot of trouble.

The creature slowed, ice crystals racing across its skin, as it froze in place. Oghren spun around and cleaved it in two with a mighty roar. “Is that all of them?” Nathaniel asked, looking around with his bow raised.

Neria scowled at the thick, black blood clinging to her blade. “For now? It appears so.”

Anders exhaled slowly, sending a broad burst of healing energy through the others. “Well. Then lead on fearlessly, oh fearless leader.”

 _8 Justinian 9:32 Dragon_

Kristoff had not camped in the village. Kristoff had instead, in his increasingly questionable wisdom, elected to camp out in the middle of the swamp, in a small hollow surrounded by trees and holes in the Veil. Neria, demonstrating a similar lack of wisdom, had ordered them to set their own camp there, once the marsh became too dark to navigate safely. Despite her assurances that there was no sign of struggle and thus Kristoff had probably never been attacked there, Anders slept poorly. Even Pounce’s warmth and reassuring purrs couldn’t push back the pervasive sense of dread lingering in the place.

The marsh was still gloomy and shadowed the next morning, the early summer sun unable to break through the persistent clouds overhead. Nathaniel tried to explain it, something to do with the location of the marsh relative to the Waking Sea, but Anders zoned out rather quickly. He was too tired to focus, and he’d never really cared about _how_ the weather worked, so long as it did, bringing him wind and rain and sun instead of still, gray corridors and weak candlelight.

Now they were continuing their search through the Blackmarsh, looking for a Grey Warden in a darkspawn-infested swamp. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, except the needle felt like hay and was unrecognizable as a needle until it came up to you and said hello. Anders trudged through the muck behind his companions and scowled at the path. At least it wasn't the Deep Roads. Or the Circle. As long as he wasn't in either of those places, things could be worse.

The faint buzzing that he associated with his fellow Wardens surged into a grinding roar. He looked up from the path, expecting to see charging genlocks or hurlock archers or an ogre bearing down on them. Instead there were sickly white shells surrounded by purplish-pink growths that looked entirely too much like raw meat for his liking. The shells shuddered and cracked open, spewing acid and creatures that looked like enormous, mutated roaches onto the ground. The creatures-- the darkspawn-- skittered towards them, hissing and spitting.

Neria and Anders had similar responses: blasts of flame and lightning, respectively. The darkspawn popped and crackled, and the air filled with the horrible scent of their charred flesh. Somehow it managed to be worse than ordinary darkspawn. Anders coughed and staggered backwards, holding his staff up defensively. Oghren hacked at them, quickly getting covered in guts and gore, while Nathaniel found a convenient hill to scramble up.

Anders cast a repulsion glyph around himself and blasted the darkspawn with ice, holding them still long enough for Neria and Oghren to hack into pieces. But the creatures just kept coming, more and more pouring down the path and out of their... eggs, he supposed. “When can we start running?” he shouted, watching as few of the darkspawn rebounded off the repulsion field.

“When we're dead!” Neria shouted back. Anders groaned. Damned Wardenly duty. Neria lunged forward and skewered a darkspawn on her sword. As she yanked the blade free, another one of the creatures jumped on her, knocking her to the ground. She shrieked in pain, arms over her face, as the thing started _chewing_ on her.

“Oghren!” Anders yelled. The dwarf spun around and caught the darkspawn with the edge of his axe, knocking it off Neria. She laid there, dazed and bleeding, groping blindly in the mud for her sword. Anders glanced at the fading repulsion glyph, then at the remaining darkspawn, and swore under his breath as he ran to Neria's side. “Hang on,” he murmured and pressed glowing hands to her chest. Blood seeped from ugly, blackish wounds in her neck. “Good thing you're already tainted,” he continued, focusing his energy on purging out any poison. “Or else you'd really be in trouble.”

She coughed and managed to roll her eyes. Anders beamed at her. “See?” he said as the wounds slowly closed. “You'll be fine.”

“Never doubted you,” she rasped.

There was a sickening crunch somewhere to Anders's left. “Think that's all of 'em, Commander,” Oghren declared.

“What were those things?” Nathaniel asked. “Some new form of darkspawn?”

Anders shook his head and pulled his pack off his shoulder. “But why would we be seeing new darkspawn?” he asked. “This isn't even a blight!” He opened the pack and peered inside. “Are you all right, Ser Pounce-a-laaaaagh!” Pounce swatted at his face and hissed, then retreated back into the depths of his bag. “I know, I know,” he said. “I'm the worst cat owner ever. I'm sorry.”

Pounce made a grumbling noise and poked his head out again, allowing Anders to scratch him behind the ears before settling back into the bag. “Let's keep going,” Neria said, collecting her sword. “We need to find Kristoff. Or... what's left of him. If he encountered these things, I'm not very optimistic about his survival.” Anders nodded and got to his feet, instinctively brushing the mud off his robes, and reshouldered his pack.

They didn't have to go far. There was a small collection of ruined houses at the top of the next hill, and in the midst of them lay Kristoff's corpse. At least, Anders assumed it was Kristoff, given the blue-and-silver griffon on his shield. Neria sighed. “I wish I could say I was surprised,” she murmured. “Any idea how long he's been dead?”

Anders shook his head, peering at the corpse without getting too close. “Hard to tell. We're in a swamp in summertime, that's not exactly good for preservation. Probably not long.”

The buzz of darkspawn peaked again. Anders groaned and turned around as the creatures slowly moved in, blocking them into the small clearing. They didn't move to attack, though. A hurlock in chainmail approached, mouth stretched in something resembling a grin. “Yes, that is your Grey Warden,” it said, pointing at the corpse. “The Mother told it to me that if he was lured to this place, and slain, that in time you would come.” It raised its arms, almost in praise. “And the Mother, she is right. The Mother is always right.”

“So... this is supposed to be an ambush, then?” Neria asked. She looked unimpressed.

“An ambush?” It paused, thinking, as though it didn't quite know the word. “That is an attack. We do not wish to fight. I... here, before you, is the First. And I am bringing to you a message.” It straightened up slightly. “The Mother, she is not permitting you to further _his_ plan, whether this you know or not. So she is sending you a gift.”

Anders decided that he really did not want any gift offered by any darkspawn. The First stretched out its hand; a familiar, green-black light enveloped it, then burst outwards, sweeping across the clearing. Anders instinctively threw an arm up in front of his face to shield his eyes from the light. He gasped at the sudden feeling of vertigo, and then everything went dark.

*

Garrett tied the reins to the fence and stepped back, glaring at the horse. It glared back. Untrustworthy creature. Not like a mabari-- horses had no sense of loyalty beyond apples and sugar cubes, and Garrett was carrying neither. It could just bite through the reins and abandon him on this farm in the middle of nowhere. He narrowed his eyes at the horse before he turned on his heel and headed for the empty farmhouse.

After weeks of silence and fruitless searches, he'd gotten a tip from a patrol about a late-night meeting at this abandoned farm. It had fallen to the darkspawn weeks ago, the family long since burned; no one was supposed to be there. Ordinarily Garrett would have chalked it up to bandits, but one of the soldiers had mentioned seeing an unusual number of guards surrounding the house. Bandits might have left one or two _visible_ guards outside, but a dozen of them in plain sight? That was something else altogether.

If any members of the conspiracy had been meeting here, Garrett doubted that they'd have left anything useful behind. But they might have forgotten to burn the sign-in sheet or something, so he had to check. The door was already off its hinges, deep gouges in the wood testament to the darkspawn that had torn it down. He briefly wondered what their house in Lothering looked like now, then clenched his jaw and shook his head. There was a time and a place to mourn that life, and this was not it.

He made his way through the rooms, ignoring the blood spattered on the walls as best he could. The family’s relatives had cleaned the house out pretty well, but there were little things that had been missed: a drawer full of wooden utensils, a barrel of lantern oil in the pantry, a stuffed rabbit in the corner. Distractions, all of it, and Garrett forced himself to look past it and focus on the tracks in the dust and the number of chairs gathered around the dining room table. The ashes in the fireplace looked relatively recent; Garrett sifted through them, hoping for some scrap of paper that might have survived intact, but came up with only dust.

With a sigh, he brushed off his hands and made his way towards the door. A large group had met here, but whoever they’d been, they’d left nothing behind. Another dead end, and all the while the conspirators moved ever closer to striking at Surana. He had to get out in front of them.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, Garrett wasn’t aware of anything around him until he stepped out onto the front porch and heard someone gasp. His head snapped up and he blinked at the pair of wide-eyed warriors standing at the base on the steps. They all stared at each other for a moment, and then, without a word, the warriors turned and fled back towards their mounts.

Garrett took two steps forward and stretched out his hand, twisting the air around the men to hold them in place. One of them stopped in mid-stride; the other yelped and kept running, looking back over his shoulder as he went. “Maleficar!” he cried fearfully.

“No, just a regular mage,” Garrett grumbled, walking down the steps and drawing on the power for another spell. The barrier flickered into place around the second warrior. He spun around and gaped at Garrett, pounding futilely against the solid wall of force.

Garrett jogged over to his horse and fumbled around in the saddlebag until he found a coil of rope. He sliced two sections off with the bladed end of his staff and jogged back to the paralyzed warrior. The spell ended just as he reached the man, and he quickly bound the soldier’s wrists. “Please don’t kill me,” the man whispered, eyes wide, as Garrett kicked him to his knees.

“Hopefully I won’t have to,” Garrett replied. “Stay.” He bound the other man similarly and led him over to his friend, then stood before them, arms folded. “So,” he began. “What brings you here?” They glanced at each other, but remained silent. Garrett sighed. “I hate doing things the hard way,” he muttered, and paralyzed them both again. “Back in a moment,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

They didn’t have any identifying information on their horses, but a search through their belt pouches turned up an old patrol schedule. “Oh, this isn’t good,” he said, looking the schedule over as he released the spell. “If this was recent, I’d assume you were readying an ambush, but this one’s a month old. So you’re soldiers yourselves, aren’t you?” Still no response, but the nervous shifting and panicked glances told him everything he needed to know. “Right. So, I’ll ask you again, what are you doing here?”

“We’ll not answer to a blood mage!” one of the soldiers snapped.

Garrett sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Look, here’s a piece of free advice, and if you’re really lucky you’ll actually get to use it: blood mages use blood to cast their spells. As you can see,” he spread his arms wide, “I am not bleeding. Neither of you are bleeding. Therefore: _not a blood mage._ ” He dropped his arms and glared at them. “Now, I’m going to ask you again, and if you don’t explain yourselves, things are going to get _very_ messy.” He hoped that one of them cracked; the flashiest spell he knew was the one that made people’s blood boil and explode, and that wasn’t very good for getting information.

“Who wants to know?” the first soldier asked.

“I work for the arlessa.” The man who’d accused him of blood magic sneered silently. “Your turn.”

The first one sighed. “We were meeting someone,” he admitted.

“Does this someone have a name?”

“Don’t,” the second soldier hissed. “Don’t you bloody dare--”

“Ser Timothy.” The first man glared at his comrade. “I don’t have no problem with the arlessa. I needed the coin, and they was payin’.”

“And now they’ll kill you!”

Garrett shrugged. “Not if I kill you first,” he replied calmly. “Right now I’m on the fence. I’d be more inclined to let you go if you keep talking. Why was he meeting you?”

“Didn’t say,” the helpful soldier replied. “Jus’ said that if we wanted some good coin and wanted to see someone else ruling the Keep, we could come here.”

Garrett scanned the horizon. “Anyone else coming?”

“Dunno. Maybe.”

He blew out a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right,” he said. “Here’s how this is gonna go. I’m gonna paralyze you again and cut your ropes, and then I’m leaving. Once the spell wears off, you two can go. I suggest getting out of the arling, because I will be telling your captain about this, and if your conspirators don’t kill you first, then he’ll see you hanged for sure.” 

Garrett spun on his heel and headed for the house. “What—where are you going?” one of the soldiers called.

“Back in a minute,” he shouted back. “Don’t go anywhere.” He ran back to the kitchen and dragged the barrel of lantern oil out into the room. It was only half-full, but that was all he needed. Garrett tipped it over on the table, oil splashing over the furniture and floor, then fished his flint and steel out of his belt pouch. The soldier’s schedule was good enough tinder; after a couple misses, the paper caught. Garrett waited in the doorway, watching, until the oil caught with an explosive _whoosh._

He bolted out of the house, dropping a paralysis spell on the soldiers as he came down the steps, and quickly cut the ropes. “I’d go west, if I were you,” he advised. “That’s where most people I run out of the arling end up. Maybe you can form a club.”

Neither man replied. Garrett ran back to his horse and untied the reins from the fence. Smoke started to pour out of the downstairs windows in the house as he swung into the saddle. If nothing else, the fire would create confusion among the conspirators. And it seemed better to let the house burn, anyway. Same as burning a corpse-- it was more respectful to reduce it to ashes, instead of leaving it to rot.

He wheeled the horse around to the path towards Amaranthine and nudged its sides. “Let’s go,” he muttered as it broke into a gallop, leaving the burning farm behind.

*

 _9 Justinian 9:32 Dragon_

Anders had never been in the Fade this long. He guessed. Time went a bit funny on this side of the Veil, and while he was pretty sure they’d been trapped there for several hours at least, there was no way to tell for certain. It could have been five minutes or five days.

Maker, he hoped it hadn't been five days. The results of that would not be pretty for anyone.

Oghren was uncharacteristically quiet, aside from mumbled comments about “unnatural” and “no wonder you all are so funny in the head, coming here when you sleep.” Nathaniel and Neria were both on edge, weapons readied. Neria, in particular, kept looking over her shoulder at the rest of them, as though assuring herself that they were still there.

Anders was just grateful that Pounce was with him, too. It meant he wasn't awake and wandering off into the marsh or crushed to death under Anders when he'd collapsed. The kitten was perched on his shoulder, strangely calm given the circumstances. Anders reached up and scratched Pounce under the chin as Neria led them down another street in the village. It had seemed so tiny in reality, but here, it was like a maze, streets looping back on themselves and villagers staring through them, talking to horrors only they could see.

Indistinct shouts echoed down the street to them. Neria stopped and shook her head. “I swear we're getting closer,” she said. “But every time...”

“We end up back at the square,” Nathaniel said. “I know.”

Neria rubbed her temple. “Anders?” she asked, turning to him. “Any ideas?”

“Sorry,” he replied. “The Fade's not my area of expertise. I tend not to visit unless I'm sleeping.” The best way to avoid temptation from demons, he'd found, was not to put himself in their path.

She groaned and looked around. “There has to be a way out,” she said. “I've gotten out of Fade mazes far worse than this, and that was on my own... Between the four of us we should be able to figure out something.”

Pounce meowed and stood up, balancing on Anders's shoulder, then jumped to the ground. He sniffed the dirt for a moment before trotting away. “Ser Pounce-a-Lot!” Anders called, hurrying after him.

“Anders-- dammit,” Neria muttered. He heard footsteps behind him as he followed the kitten, who wove between buildings and down oddly familiar streets. Pounce paused every now and then to sniff the ground or cock his head to the side and listen, but never long enough for Anders to grab him again. Finally, Pounce turned a corner and stopped, coming back to twist around Anders's ankles. Directly ahead of them was a crowd of angry villagers, seemingly led by a man in armor who appeared to be the source of the shouting.

Anders beamed. “Who's a good kitty?” he said, crouching down to pet Pounce. The kitten purred and paced back and forth under his hand. “The very best kitten in Thedas, that's what you are.”

“I'll get him a whole plate of fish when we get back to the Keep,” Neria said, taking the lead once again. “Now, let's see if these people know what's going on here any better than we do.”

The group of villagers looked like a pretty classic unruly mob. Just add some pitchforks and torches and they'd be straight out of one of the Circle's few novels. “The mansion will not protect you, fiend!” the man in armor shouted. “Come out and face your crime!”

“The witch hides!” a woman called. “Break down the door!”

The armored man turned. “Be cautious, my friends,” he said, voice echoing inside his helm. “The baroness has power within her lair, and she well knows it. We rush in at our peril.”

As they drew closer, the crowd parted to let them through. The armored man turned towards them and spread his arms... arms that were a bit transparent. Not a man, then. A spirit, more likely. Anders fell back a step or two. Spirits were safer than demons, what with their indifference towards his mind and his delicate mortal frame, but that didn't mean they were friendly.

“And who comes now?” the spirit asked. “More minions of the baroness? Or yet more helpless souls she has trapped here?”

“We are trapped,” Neria said. “But we are Grey Wardens. Not quite helpless.”

The spirit shook its head. “I cannot say what a 'Grey Warden' is, but clearly you are strangers. Perhaps it is a sign.” The spirit paused for a moment and straightened up. “I am Justice,” it said, touching a hand to its chest. “I have watched this place and seethed at the wrongs visited on these poor folk, and now I seek to aid them.”

The woman at its side spoke up. “Once, we lived in the real world, and the baroness ruled over us. She took our children and used their blood to work dark and evil magic.”

“And when we burned down her mansion, she cast one final spell that brought our spirits here,” one of the men said, picking up the tale. “We have been trapped here ever since, under her rule.”

Nathaniel exhaled sharply. “The village disappeared before the rebellion against Orlais,” he murmured. “How long...?”

Anders rubbed the back of his neck. “Not that this isn't tragic and all,” he began, “but if this baroness knows how to send people one way across the veil, she probably knows how to send them back. She sounds like our best bet for getting out of here.” Blood mages were despicable, yes, but predictable. Predictable and mortal, with understandable motives and morals. Spirits, even ones of Justice, were utterly alien. Who knew how this spirit would judge them?

Justice focused its attention on Neria. “Tell me, stranger, will you aid us in this righteous cause?” it asked. “You appear an able sort, and thus your aid would be most welcome.”

“Righteous causes tend to end with lots of people dead,” Anders muttered. “I'm just saying.”

Neria folded her arms. “Do you know a way out of the Fade?” she asked the spirit. “Into the real world?”

“Into the...? Ah. You speak of the realm of mortals.” Justice shook its head. “That I do not know. My kind do not seek to cross the Veil. We pity the mortals, trapped as you are in that dismal place.” Anders rolled his eyes. This yellow-gray wasteland was far more dismal than almost any of his waking hours. “Demons seek to cross the Veil, however. If you aid me, I will help you seek out such a creature so that we might question it.”

Anders sighed. “That's not the greatest plan I've ever heard,” he said.

Neria half-turned to look at him, lips pressed together in a frown. “Nor is begging for help from a blood mage,” she said. “Maker only knows what she'll ask of us in return for her help. If we defeat her, we can force her to tell us what she knows.”

“Well...” That did make a certain amount of sense. He still didn't like it, but it wasn't like they had many options. “All right. We'll do it your way.”

She nodded and turned back to the spirit. “Then we are ready,” she said. “Do you know what we'll be facing?”

Justice shook its head. “I know only that she commands great power,” it replied. “But we have the advantage of numbers. With you on our side, I do not believe we can fail.” Anders was reasonably certain he'd read at least one history text that included similar proclamations issued immediately before a bloody defeat. He swallowed hard and tucked Pounce into his robes. Justice turned to face the gates. “Good people, we take the battle directly to the witch! For too long have her crimes gone unpunished! Now is the time to reclaim your freedom!”

Justice kicked the gates open and led the charge in. Anders hung back-- tactically, it made sense to keep the delicate healer away from the heavy fighting. Plus, he had a fragile kitten to look after. He had no idea what would happen if something tragic befell Pounce in the Fade, and he wasn't about to find out.

The baroness was waiting for them, flanked by a pair of ash wraiths. Anders made a face. That didn't bode well. “My, my. All that shouting outside and now you've finally decided to barge in? Without even a proper invitation?”

“Foul sorceress! You will release these poor souls and submit yourself to justice!”

Anders resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, that would obviously work. All those years of evil-doing and she was going to realize the error of her ways because of a stern tone of voice. Justice and the villagers shouted back and forth with her, accusing each other of various crimes. Anders could barely find it in him to be surprised when the talking darkspawn showed up at the baroness's side.

“Enough!” Justice roared, as the darkspawn and wraiths descended upon them. “The battle is joined!”

Anders tucked himself into a corner in an attempt to avoid the worst of the fighting. Fortunately, everyone seemed a lot more interested in the people with swords and armor, and he was able to cast his healing spells and the occasional blast of ice without much trouble. Justice, in typical misguided hero fashion, had charged the baroness to duel her one-on-one. Neria shouted orders at the villagers, and slowly but surely, they pushed back the baroness’s defenses.

“Why haven't you defeated them!?” the baroness shrieked, hurling Justice backwards with a blast of magic.

“They are too much,” the First rasped, dragging itself backwards on its good leg. “It must be sending me back through the Veil! Now, before it is too late!”

The baroness sneered. “Oh, I will sunder the Veil all right,” she said, hands glowing with power. “I'll send them all back! But you-- your life will provide the power!”

The darkspawn screamed as she swung her arms forward, wrenching the creature's life energy away. Everything went green and bright again; Anders swore under his breath and wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging Pounce tight.

Feeling came back in a rush, none of it pleasant. He was sweaty and sticky and covered in mud. Pounce yowled and desperately clawed his way out of Anders’s robes. “I agree completely,” Anders groaned, blinking up at the dark sky. A few heavy, cool raindrops plunked onto his face; he grimaced and leveraged himself into a sitting position.

At least he had the slight comfort of not being alone: the others looked just as miserable as he felt. Neria slowly got to her feet, cradling her head in one hand. Nathaniel sat up and scrubbed at his eyes, while Oghren lurched upright, leaning on his axe for support. And behind them, Kristoff twitched.

That got Anders up on his feet in a hurry. “Anders?” Neria asked, frowning at him. “What's--”

Kristoff's armor clanked as he got to his feet, looking around with wide, terrified eyes. Neria fell back a few steps, holding out an arm to keep Oghren and Nathaniel back. Anders scooped up Pounce and hugged him protectively. No undead Warden was going to eat his kitten. “Where—where am I?” Kristoff asked. “What is happening?” He turned in a slow circle. “No! This is the world of mortals, beyond the Veil! And this...” He passed a hand over his face. “This is a mortal body of flesh. I am trapped within!”

“The spirit of Justice,” Neria breathed. “How did you get here?”

“The witch sundered the Veil in her haste,” Justice spat. “All of us were drawn through!” Which was good for them, in Anders's opinion, although not quite so good for the spirit. He seemed downright panicked. “She has returned to this realm as well, can you not feel it?” Justice demanded.

Anders frowned. “Wouldn't she be dead, with everyone else in the village?” he asked.

Justice shook his head. “The baroness, she is not a mortal as you are or as were the villagers she kept trapped,” he said. “There was such a mortal once, but now?” He made a scoffing noise. “That is a demon of pride. She assumed that role long ago to feed from the mortals she trapped.” Justice focused his unblinking gaze on Neria. “But here in your world... here, she will be quite something else.”

This was starting to sound like there would be fighting. Anders was in support of fighting demons in general, just like he was in support of fighting darkspawn in general, but he really didn't like having to do it himself. “What do you propose, then?” Neria asked

“The Veil is sundered, and the tears must be closed lest they continue to spill demons into this world,” Justice replied.

Neria frowned. “Last time I encountered something like this, a mage had to perform a ritual to close the tear,” she said. “I don't know...”

“I can alter your weapons, for a time, allowing them to drive back the Fade's magic,” Justice replied. “But if we are to deal with the baroness, we must move swiftly.”

Neria nodded and gestured for Justice to take the lead out of the clearing. Anders sighed and tucked Pounce back into his pack before following. This was not going to end well.

 *****

 _12 Justinian 9:32 Blackmarsh_

“A corpse?” Carver asked, leaning forward over the table. “The latest recruit is a corpse!?”

“Possessed by a spirit,” Oghren confirmed. He gestured at Garrett with his mug. “Doesn’t that make him undead or somethin’?”

“Or something,” Garrett agreed. The Wardens had returned from the Blackmarsh earlier in the day, with a corpse apparently inhabited by a spirit of justice in tow. Said spirit had elected to remain at the Keep while everyone else headed to the tavern, which was probably for the best. Garrett had a sneaking suspicion that someone who went by Justice wasn't much fun at parties.

Carver shook his head. “That seems dangerous,” he said. “Father always warned you two about spirits and demons, and now we've got one hanging around...”

Garrett shrugged. “It's already got a body to live in,” he said. “Why would it want to come after ours?”

“Because we are so very pretty!” Anders declared, sliding onto the bench beside him with a pair of mugs in each hand. “Also, alive, which I imagine is preferable to being dead. Or undead. Whatever. Doesn't matter. Drink!” He slid mugs to each of the Hawkes, then picked up his own and drank deeply.

Garrett took a sip of ale. “Sorry, Hawke,” Surana said, squeezing past him with a glass of her own, Nathaniel following behind.

“Oh, Commander,” he said, half-turning to face her. “I wanted to talk to you. Varel and I found information about Ser Timothy--”

She held up a hand, silencing him. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Once I'm past the worst of the hangover. Tonight, we are relaxing and celebrating. That's an order.” She grinned and dropped onto the bench across from Bethany. “Howe, sit,” she said, gesturing at the space beside her; Bethany's ears turned red.

“Aww, I think Neria's trying to play matchmaker,” Anders whispered, leaning on Garrett's shoulder. “That's so sweet!”

“Did she do that sort of thing in the Circle?” Garrett asked.

Anders sighed, his breath warm against Garrett's jaw. “There weren't really matches to be made,” he said. “But she's _married_ now, so she must know what she's doing.”

“Not necessarily,” Garrett muttered.

Anders reached over and patted him on the other shoulder. “They have to grow up eventually,” he said, leaving his arm wrapped around Garrett. “And she could do far worse than Nate.”

“Such as?”

“Oghren.”

Garrett glanced across the table at the dwarf, who was refilling Carver's mug from an unmarked black bottle. “I can't argue with that.” Anders giggled and raised his head enough to take another drink, then nestled back against Garrett. Garrett exhaled slowly. “How much have you had?” he asked.

“Mm... this is my second mug. I think.”

“And you're already at the clingy stage of drunk,” Garrett muttered. “Wonderful.”

“'s not my fault you're so...so... clingable,” Anders said. Garrett pinched the bridge of his nose. Anders heaved a sigh. “Fine, fine. Don' wanna overstay my welcome.” He straightened up, rocking back and forth a bit before finally steadying himself. Garrett frowned and tried to ignore the sudden chill that came over him, despite the warm summer evening. Anders took another large drink and surveyed the room. “Oh, hey, music,” he commented, waving a hand at the corner, where a small troupe was settling in with their instruments.

As soon as the flutist started to play, Bethany perked up, glancing around until she located the source of the music. She smiled broadly and started to stand, then hesitated, glancing at Nathaniel. Garrett sighed and leaned towards her. “Go ask,” he said. “It'll be fun.”

“I-- all right,” she said, beaming, and made her way through the bar.

Surana shot him a confused look. “Does she sing?”

Garrett shook his head, watching as Bethany leaned down to speak with the lute player. The woman smiled and nodded, gesturing to the space in front of her. Bethany took a few steps forward and brushed her hands on her skirt. The troupe started their first song, a lively, traditional Fereldan tune, and after a few beats, Bethany began to dance.

Surana laughed. “Well, that answers that,” she said with a grin. Beside her, Nathaniel leaned forward to watch, a faint smile on his face as he rapped his knuckles against the table in time with the music. Garrett glowered at the archer, who didn't appear to notice.

“Wow,” Anders said, drawing Garrett's attention, “she's really good.”

Garrett nodded, smiling as Bethany spun on one foot and kicked high in the air. “She's been doing it since she was eight,” he said. “In Lothering, they'd have a festival at the drop of a hat, and there was always music and dancing. Our neighbors had a couple girls who were really good at it, and they taught Beth.” His smile faded a bit, and he traced his finger around the rim of his mug. “She always loved it, being around the other girls, getting to play at normal.” It had always made Mother and Father smile, too, to see her so happy for a night. 

“She wanted to be normal?” Anders asked.

Garrett shrugged. “Sometimes,” he replied. He looked at Anders. “Don't we all, every now and then?”

Anders blinked at him, then turned away, downing the rest of his mug in one swallow. “Want another?” he asked. Garrett glanced at his barely touched ale, then raised an eyebrow at Anders. The other mage smirked. “Lightweight.”

Garrett snorted. “Says the man who's tripping over his own feet two ales in.”

“At least I'm drinking.”

“He'sh right,” Carver slurred, throwing himself into the conversation as he half-sprawled on the table. “Garrett never drinksh anything. Jusht washes. Washes? _Watches._ ”

He smirked. “Someone's got to haul your sorry ass home, Carver.”

“Shut up.”

The song ended, and the crowd burst into applause and cries for more. Bethany laughed, hiding her smile behind a hand, and turned to look at the troupe. They seemed happy to have her, and as they struck up another tune, a few more people came to join Bethany on the impromptu dance floor.

Anders slid off the bench and made his way up to the bar. Garrett watched as he flagged down the bartender and ordered his drink, then smiled brightly at the woman leaning against the bar beside him. She smiled back, and Garrett looked away, glaring into his mug. Around him, music and applause and laughter filled the air. Carver was trying to go shot for shot with Oghren, while Bethany had collected enough people for one of the more complicated group dances.

Garrett took a drink and involuntarily glanced at the bar again. Anders had gotten his drink, but he hadn't moved, leaning in towards the woman, laughing at something she'd said. She reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, then dropped her hand back to the bar, letting it rest on Anders's wrist. He let it stay. Garrett looked down at the table and scowled. That could've been him. It should've been-- but no, this was for the best. He had responsibilities. And it was obvious what Anders wanted out of him. Probably nothing more than what he wanted out of that woman; never mind the voice in the back of his head that said Anders had been trying for six weeks, which was a lot of effort for a quick lay.

“Hey, big brother!” Bethany chirped, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Her face was flushed and she was out of breath as she slid onto the bench beside him. “Why so glum?”

He shook his head and dredged up a smile. “It's nothing.”

She glanced around until her gaze fell on Anders. “Oh,” she said, her smile vanishing. “Garrett, I--”

“It's fine,” he said quickly. Bethany frowned at him, eyes wide with sympathy. He pushed his mug over to her. “Here, you can finish this. I'm gonna call it an early night.”

Bethany squeezed his arm. “I'll make sure Carver gets home safe.”

He smiled at her and dropped a kiss to the top of her head as he stood. “Thanks, Beth. I’ll see you later.”

 *****

 _15 Justinian 9:32 Dragon_

Summer had hit the Keep with a vengeance, leaving the fortress baking in the sun and Anders both uncomfortably hot and bored. There was no one in the clinic and no need to make potions. Ser Pounce-a-Lot was waiting out the heat by sleeping under Anders's bed, and no amount of cajoling or pouting would move him. Neria was gone, off with Nathaniel and Velanna, for some reason, to go arrest yet another member of the conspiracy. And Justice was… a bit ripe, given the weather. Anders had advised him, from a prudent distance, to spend some time in the cooler cellars.

That left him with Hawke. Anders wandered down the hall towards the man’s office, plucking at his robes and frowning when they stuck to his skin. Blighted heat. Maker, he hoped Hawke was around, or else he was probably going to go mad from boredom.

The door was half-open, and Anders smoothed his hair back before leaning around the door frame and peering into the office. Hawke was at his desk, his sleeves pushed up past his elbows and his shirt halfway unlaced, with both windows pushed open to allow in any breeze. Anders forgot whatever pithy line he’d planned and just stared, letting his gaze trace over the thick scar on Hawke’s forearm, the dark hair on his chest, the bead of sweat slowly sliding down his neck… Anders swallowed hard. Almost two months he’d been throwing himself at the man, and while he hadn’t been outright rejected, Hawke hadn’t exactly returned his interest, either. It was maddening.

Hawke wiped the sweat off his neck and scowled, then glanced up. “Need something?” he asked.

Anders smirked. “Just your charming presence in my life once more, Hawke.”

“Garrett.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You can call me Garrett.” He shrugged. “I’m tired of feeling like I need to turn around to look for my father every time you’re talking to me.”

The smirk grew into a full grin. “If you say so, Garrett,” Anders purred.

Hawke— _Garrett_ —momentarily looked like he was regretting that decision. “Did you actually need something, or is this one of your bored-and-desperate visits?”

“Bored and desperate,” Anders confirmed. He slid into the office and shut the door behind him. “I thought you normally worked at home.”

“Too quiet,” Garrett said, tapping his papers on the desk to even them out before setting them aside.

Anders gave him a skeptical smile. “Wasn’t that the whole point?”

“I like some quiet, not, you know, silent as the grave.”

“And the fact that your office is closer to my infirmary had nothing to do with it?”

Garrett smirked. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s just your ego talking there.”

“Ah, well.” Anders meandered across the room, eying the still-empty shelves as he passed. “The twins aren’t around?”

“Not so much these days,” Garrett said as he leaned back in his chair. “Beth’s tormenting soldiers with fireballs and mooning over Howe, and Carver’s following Varel around like a lost puppy.” He frowned. “And training with the recruits because Varel keeps _encouraging_ him to.”

Anders raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want him to?”

“It’s dangerous.”

Anders shrugged. “Life’s dangerous.”

“How profound,” Garrett drawled.

“I mean it!” Anders retorted. “You want him to be really safe? I know this _great_ tower you can send him to. What’re the odds it’ll be overrun by demons twice in one lifetime?”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “He’s not joining the army. It’s too dangerous.”

Anders arched an eyebrow at him. “And what you do isn’t?”

“That’s different.”

“Okay.” Anders shook his head and hopped up to perch on the edge of Garrett’s desk. Much to his delight, the other man didn’t pull away.

“Look, they’re all I’ve got, all right?” Garrett looked up at him, holding his gaze. “I have to keep them safe. I’ve made too many deathbed promises to let something happen to them.”

Promises to who, exactly, Anders wondered, but that was a bit heavy of a topic for the mood he was in. He held up his hands in mock-surrender. “All right, all right, not to question your authority as the family elder, got it.”

“That’s not what I—oh, forget it,” Garrett grumbled and inched away from Anders.

“Done.” Anders grinned and scooted closer. “I’d much rather talk about _you_ than your brother, anyway.”

“What about me?”

Anders raked Garrett with his eyes. “Mm, where to start?” Garrett looked away, idly fiddling with a torn scrap of parchment on his desk. Anders chuckled. “Just how long _has_ it been since someone flirted with you?”

“Besides you, you mean?” Garrett replied waspishly. “Since you seem to do it whenever we’re in the same room.”

“Well, I just can’t resist.” Anders sighed. “Unlike _you_ apparently.”

The other man shrugged. “Some of us have a spine.”

Anders chuckled and reached out to trace his fingers up and down Garrett’s arm. Garrett hadn’t pulled away or told him to stop yet, which he took as a good sign. “I’ll wear you down eventually,” he said. He slid his fingers past Garrett’s shoulder and across the side of the other man’s neck, just for a few seconds, before pulling them away. Garrett swallowed hard. “I wonder how long it’ll take before I drive you mad--”

Garrett was up and out of his chair before Anders could blink; the man was _fast_ when he wanted to be. He dragged Anders off the desk, one arm around his waist, and all but threw him into the narrow strip of wall between the windows. The impact knocked the air out of Anders’s lungs, and he had a moment to draw in another breath before Garrett grabbed him by the shoulders and crushed his mouth to his.

Garrett didn't kiss like Neria; she'd been playful, teeth and tongue and gentle bites. He didn't kiss like Karl, either, despite the beard-- Karl's kisses had always offered something hidden, something more, if only he'd reach out and take it. Which, of course, he never did. And Garrett didn't kiss like any of the random one-or-two-night-stands he'd had, in the Tower or out of it. Those had been good, good _enough_ , but always a little off, neither one knowing exactly what the other wanted but without the time or inclination to learn.

No, Garrett kissed like he was starving, like it hurt him to hold back. There was teeth and tongue, for sure, but nothing hidden. He kissed like it was a claim. He _wanted_ Anders, a fact that sent a shiver of something-- maybe desire, very probably fear-- down Anders's spine.

That aside, it was bloody _fantastic._

For all that the man blushed like a-- well, not like a virgin, but like someone who hadn't gotten laid in entirely too long, he was a damned fine kisser. Anders let out a muffled groan and surrendered to it, knowing that fighting for control was a lost cause. He raked a hand through Garrett's hair, thick and soft and slightly damp with sweat, his other hand curled around Garrett's shoulder.

They parted, eventually, when lack of air became a very real concern. Anders let his head hit the wall behind him with a faint thump. Garrett licked his lips. “Well,” Anders said, gasping for breath, “that answers that question.”

“Shut up,” Garrett growled. This time, Anders met him halfway, fingers tightening and tugging at Garrett's hair to angle his head just so as they kissed again. When they eventually drew back, Anders ducked his head to Garrett's neck, kissing and nipping along his jaw, his nose trailing through Garrett's beard. No biting, not yet. It was a bit early in the day and in the affair to be sending the man out with bruises.

Garrett made a faint, choked noise and tipped his head back to give Anders more room. Anders grinned momentarily, kissing his way up to Garrett's ear and dragging his hands over the other man's shoulders and back. Maker, but the things Anders wanted to do to him-- possibly illegal in Ferelden, though definitely allowed in Orlais and very likely required by law in Antiva.

Antiva was such a long way off. And Anders had always liked breaking rules, anyway.

Garrett tangled his shockingly chilled fingers in Anders’s hair and tugged, pulling his head back before capturing his lips with his. Anders moaned as a line of cold trailed down his spine. “Don’t think you’re the only one with fun tricks,” Garrett murmured, his breath warm on Anders’s lips. “I haven’t forgotten that electricity thing you pulled--”

“Oh?” Anders smirked breathlessly. “Do tell me how much you’ve been thinking of it--”

Garrett cut him off with another kiss. Anders slid a hand past the open collar of Garrett's shirt, fingers sliding across the heated skin. He couldn't help a smile when he pressed his palm flat against Garrett's pounding heart. Garrett nipped at his lower lip and slid his leg between Anders's; or at least, he tried to. The skirt didn't exactly have a lot of give. He growled, a low sound that sent a shiver through Anders, and took his frustration out on Anders's neck. Anders moaned and tipped his head back, panting for breath as he blinked dazedly at the ceiling. If they kept up like this he was just going to let Garrett bend him over the desk and take him right there--

Someone rapped on the door, three sharp knocks, and Anders practically jumped out of his skin. “Hawke?” Varel called.

Garrett spun around, one hand flung out towards the door, and a blast of ice hit the doorknob and lock. “Yes?”  The door rattled. “Sorry, it's sticking,” Garrett called and winked at Anders. “Need something?”

Varel sighed loudly. “When you have a moment, I want to review your report on Ser Timothy,” he replied.

“I'll come by your office in a few,” Garrett said. He and Anders didn't move as they listened to the clanking of Varel's armor slowly fade.

Anders let out a quiet sigh. For a second he'd been back in the Tower, Templars kicking in the door of the supply closet he'd snuck into. Never mind the fact that the worst thing that would happen here was Varel attempting to blind himself if he'd walked in on them. “Ice on the lock,” he commented. “Nice trick.”

“When you've got two nosy little siblings, you learn to take drastic measures when you want some alone time,” Garrett replied. He still had one hand on the back of Anders's neck, and he toyed absently with the strands of hair that hung loose from the ponytail. Anders chuckled. Garrett sighed, his gaze flickering across Anders's face, before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to his neck. “I should go see Varel,” he mumbled into his skin.

Anders nodded. “Well,” he said, sliding out from between Garrett and the wall, “if you want to pick this up tonight... you know where my room is.” An invitation and an easy out.

“Yes, I do,” Garrett said, turning to watch him as he headed for the door.

“You might want to check a looking glass before dropping in on Varel,” Anders said, gesturing at his hair. Garrett's own hair looked as though someone had been running his hands through it, and his shirt had been tugged askew.

Garrett chuckled. “Speak for yourself,” he said, touching the side of his neck. Anders raised a hand and pressed two fingers to the same spot. Bruised, probably. With a smug smirk, he cast a quick healing spell; Garrett made a face as, presumably, the bruise vanished. Anders raked a hand through his hair, setting it mostly to rights, and tugged at the door. It took a few tries, but eventually the ice cracked and he managed to yank it open.

“See you tonight,” Garrett called as Anders stepped out into the hall.

Anders looked back over his shoulder at him and grinned. “I certainly hope so.” He let the door swing shut behind him and took a moment to grin like a fool at absolutely nothing. Then, with a contented sigh, he headed towards the library. He needed to find the driest magical theory text imaginable if he was going to distract himself for the next few hours.

*

“I'm going out,” Garrett announced, leaning in the doorway of Bethany's room about an hour after sunset.

“Oh?” she asked, glancing up from her book. “Where to?”

“Just... out.” Maker, he felt like he was trying to sneak past Mother to meet boys out behind the barn.

Bethany smirked, and Garrett knew he was done for. “And when should we expect you back, brother dear?” she asked, eyes sparkling wickedly. He just sighed and shot her a look. She grinned. “Is it Anders? It had better be Anders.”

“Beth...” He rubbed his forehead.

She giggled. “Get out of here, then,” she said. “Carver and I will be fine.”

“Don't burn the house down,” he replied. She waggled her fingers at him and picked up the book again.

Garrett blew out a breath as the door to the house shut behind him. He tried to look as casual as possible as he climbed the stairs to the Keep. Just the spymaster going to his office for some late-night work, that was all. He snorted and shook his head at his own thoughts. No one cared where he was going or who he was going to see. He really needed to get over himself.

He was able to find Anders's door without too much difficulty. Garrett glanced up and down the hallway, then rapped on the door, willing himself not to start fidgeting as the door opened.

Anders blinked at him twice, grabbed a fistful of shirt, and hauled him inside before Garrett could speak. In one seamless, fluid motion Anders slammed the door shut, threw Garrett up against the wall, and then jumped on him and crushed their mouths together. It took Garrett a few moments to recover from the semi-assault. Once he did, though, he groaned and kissed Anders back, tugging the other man's hair loose from its ponytail and tangling his fingers in the loose blonde locks.

Garrett let his head fall back against the wall as Anders went after his neck, kissing and biting and no doubt leaving a highly visible set of bruises above his collar. His hands dropped down to Garrett's belt, expertly unhooking it to get at the laces on his trousers. “Not wasting much time, are we,” Garrett muttered, making a half-hearted effort at undoing the buckles on Anders's robes.

Anders huffed out a laugh against Garrett's neck and dropped to his knees. Garrett blinked. Not that he was complaining-- absolutely no complaints about this turn of events-- but he'd never had anyone so apparently eager to suck him off before. Anders hooked his fingers into the waistband of Garrett's pants and yanked down, getting his trousers and smalls caught around his knees before moving on.

“Been wanting to do this for weeks,” Anders murmured, his breath hot against Garrett's leg. Well. He could strike the 'apparently' from that earlier thought, then. Garrett dropped his chin to his chest as he watched Anders through half-lidded eyes. The other mage traced his fingers up the sides of Garrett's legs, nipping and licking at his inner thigh. Which was nice and all, but it wasn't a mouth on his cock, which was sort of what he was expecting.

“Feel free to, y'know, get started,” Garrett said, voice a bit strangled.

Anders chuckled and looked up at him, brown eyes sparkling behind his hair. “Oh, I don't know,” he said, smirking. “Teasing you's pretty enjoyable all on its own.” Garrett let out a choked growl and grabbed the back of Anders's head, trying to at least point him in the right direction. Anders immediately zapped his wrist with a small but potent bolt of lightning. Garrett yelped. “Now that's just rude,” Anders said, following up the admonishment with another set of bite marks.

“If you don't stop-- stop faffing about down there, I will set you on _fire_ ,” Garrett muttered.

“You don't cast fire spells,” Anders pointed out with a truly obnoxious amount of patience.

“Exactly,” Garrett rasped. “Which means that I'll botch the spell completely and set your room _ohMakerAnders_ \--”

Anders, having apparently grown bored with his threats, silenced the other mage quite effectively by tonguing a line down Garrett's cock. Garrett's fingers twitched as Anders mouthed lazily at the shaft, tongue swiping out when he felt like it. After what seemed like, somehow, both entirely too long and not long enough, Anders leaned back, licked his lips with the air of one who knew he was being watched, and swallowed him to the hilt.

Garrett's head snapped back against the wall, breath coming in short, shallow gasps as Anders began to move. Holy Maker, but he was good at this-- a faint scraping of teeth, tongue swiping over the head, long fingers wrapped around the base... Garrett groaned as Anders rocked forward, suction so tight it almost ached. He made a vague mental note to find out what wonderful soul was responsible for teaching Anders how to do this and send them a thank-you note. Maybe a fruit basket.

It had been a long time for him, since before the damned blight, and Garrett could feel his release building much faster than he wanted. “Anders,” he choked out, pushing at the other man's shoulders. “I--I'm-- Maker--”

He could feel Anders smiling, lips curving against him, as he reached up and flicked his fingers at Garrett's wrist. He dropped his hand away from Garrett's hip, letting him thrust forward into that hot, eager mouth. Garrett dug his nails into his palm, trying to hold back, but after a few moments more he came with a wordless cry. Anders swallowed it all, sucking at him until there was nothing left, then pulled back enough to let Garrett collapse bonelessly in front of him.

“I told you,” Garrett gasped, “to stop.”

Anders smirked and licked his lips again, looking insufferably smug. “Yes, well, you're quite silly sometimes.”

He huffed out an annoyed breath, or as annoyed as he could manage, given the circumstances. “I sort of wanted to last more than ten minutes.”

The smirk evolved into a full grin. “Ah, but you forget that I'm magic.”

“I'm magic too. Don't see how that helps us.”

Anders's eyes glittered in a way that Garrett was certain the Chantry would find irredeemably sinful. “See, while you were off learning hexes and curses, I was in the Circle learning _useful_ spells.” He held up his right hand, which was glowing and covered with orange-white sparks. “Wanna know why they called me Sparkle-Fingers?”

“Does it have something to do with your fingers sparkling?” Garrett asked dryly.

“Smart man.” Anders reached down and grabbed him, fingers curling around his balls, as he released the spell. Familiar, rejuvenating magic surged through him.

Garrett drew in a sharp breath and stared at Anders. “You've gotta be kidding me.”

“Nope.” Without breaking eye contact or losing the smug smirk, Anders shifted position, pulling a few loose strokes over Garrett's cock. He felt himself growing hard again.

With a low growl, Garrett pushed himself to his feet, half dragging, half tackling Anders to the bed. Anders just laughed as they landed on the mattress, grabbing Garrett's shoulders as they kissed. Garrett slid his tongue past Anders's lips and drew a muffled groan out of the other mage.

“Clothes. Off,” Garrett ordered when he pulled back, tugging at Anders's robes for emphasis.

Mercifully, rather than making some supposedly clever or snarky comment, Anders just obeyed, rapidly undoing the buckles and laces on his unnecessarily complicated robes, while Garrett stripped off his pants and shirt, tossing them somewhere away. Anders pulled his whole mess of clothes off over his head and dropped them to the floor. He shimmied out of his smalls moments before Garrett pounced on him again, pinning him to the mattress and capturing his mouth in a rough kiss.

That was good enough to last for several minutes: open, biting kisses, hands sliding across every inch of skin they could reach, mouths at each others' throats. The air was full of quiet, needy gasps and groans, only occasionally managing to stutter out something resembling a curse or a prayer or a name. Garrett worked a hand between them and wrapped his fingers around their cocks, stroking them both.

“Andraste's flaming-- _fuck,_ ” Anders hissed as Garrett swiped his thumb over the head.

Garrett chuckled. “That's rather uniquely sacrilegious,” he muttered.

Anders groaned. “Oh, holy Maker, how can you even _remember_ words like that exist, that's so bloody--” He grabbed Garrett by the shoulder and dragged him down for a rough kiss. The feeling of Anders's tongue in his mouth was enough of a distraction that he didn't really notice when Anders hooked one leg around his waist. He definitely noticed when Anders flipped them over, though.

“Uh...” Garrett arched an eyebrow at this sudden change in positioning. He didn't exactly mind being on the receiving end, and he knew that with the right person, it could be fantastic... but it wasn't really his standard way of doing things. Especially not the first time.

“Oh, don't worry, sweetheart,” Anders purred, leaning over him with his forearms on either side of Garrett's head. “You get to fuck me. I just prefer not to be driven into the headboard on the first date.”

Garrett's response to that was an entirely eloquent “unhf” sort of noise. Anders grabbed Garrett's hand and muttered under his breath, shifting his fingers around until Garrett's were covered in slick oil. “There's a spell for that?” Garrett asked.

“'s called grease,” Anders informed him. “Supposedly has combat applications but damn if I know what they are.” He wriggled his hips significantly. “Mind giving me a hand?”

Garrett grinned. “A whole hand? Didn't know you were into that sort of thing--”

Anders let out a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a laugh and bit down on Garrett's ear. “Just put your fingers in my ass before I electrocute you.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely--” Garrett grabbed Anders's hip in one hand, holding him still, and slid two slick fingers into him.

Anders groaned against his ear, burying his face in Garrett's neck, and rocked back against his hand. Garrett complied, pushing his fingers in deeper, twisting and spreading them in that tight heat. Anders practically whimpered when Garrett added a third and pushed against him harder, trying to take more in. “Ready?” Garrett asked huskily.

“Flames, yes.” Anders pushed himself up to his knees, breath stuttering as Garrett eased his fingers free, and settled himself over the other man, legs pressed tight against his hips. Garrett watched as Anders raked him with his eyes, an expression almost like surprise passing over his face, like he couldn't quite believe this was actually happening.

Then the moment passed-- Anders persuaded himself it wasn't a dream or something appropriately poetic-- and he wrapped slick fingers around Garrett's cock and carefully lowered himself onto him.

Garrett's eyes rolled back as he sank into Anders, his fingers digging into the other man’s hips. He looked up at Anders and choked out a low groan at the sight: his head tipped back, baring a throat marred by bruises and bite marks that all meant _mine_ , lips parted as he drew in shallow breaths, fingers flexing in the sheets... Still watching, Garrett rocked his hips up slowly, sliding deeper into him. Anders gasped and bit his lip, muscles tightening.

Garrett was pretty sure he could watch that forever.

After a few more slow thrusts, Anders dropped his head forward, opening his eyes to look at Garrett. “Y'know,” he said, voice low and rough, and he swallowed hard before continuing, “you don't have to hold back. I can take it.” A crooked smile crossed his face. “Want to, actually.”

In that case... Garrett shifted his grip on Anders's hips, pulling the other man flush against him, gaze sliding across his body, the lean muscle and faint scars and gorgeous brown eyes gone glassy with lust. He allowed himself an answering smile and a raised eyebrow that meant _if you say so_ , and he did as Anders asked.

“Yes,” Anders moaned, eyes falling shut as Garrett pounded into him, “ _yes_ , please...” He trailed off into quiet, wordless gasps, rocking forward with every thrust. Anders was the quietest person he'd ever been with-- it wasn't that he was unresponsive, because he kept making these soft, choked-off noises that did truly terrible things to Garrett-- but he wasn't loud. At all. It wasn't quite what he'd expected from the talkative mage.

Anders pulled one hand free from the sheets and reached for his cock; almost on instinct, Garrett swatted his hand away. Anders whined in the back of his throat, a sound that quickly turned to a groan as Garrett wrapped his fingers around him. He let Anders take over their rhythm, jerking his hips between thrusting into Garrett's hand and slamming himself down onto Garrett's cock.

The muscles in Anders's legs had gone rigid, and he was close to chewing his lip bloody with the effort of holding back his own orgasm. Garrett stroked him faster, rocked his hips up to meet him every time he came down, and forced himself to keep his eyes open. Anders drew in a sharp breath and bit down on his wrist, something which Garrett found bizarrely sexy, then he finally came, spilling over Garrett's fingers, his hoarse cries muffled in his arm.

Garrett's eyes fell shut as he let go, thrusting up into Anders for a few, frantic seconds before he came again, making no effort whatsoever to be quiet. When he finally opened his eyes again, it was to the sight of Anders leaning over him, hands planted on the bed over his shoulders, trembling and panting. A mix of weary arousal and pride shot through him, and he leaned up to press a rough kiss to the other man's lips.

Anders chuckled faintly, then carefully disentangled himself from Garrett, groaning as he collapsed halfway on top of him. “Wow,” he finally said. “I'm not going to be able to walk tomorrow.”

Garrett snorted. “You're a healer. Couldn't you fix it?”

“Mm.” He shrugged, absently running his fingers through Garrett's chest hair. “Maybe. This is the sort of 'can't walk tomorrow' that I tend to enjoy, though.” He shifted position, then halfway sat up, twisting around and rummaging around for something on the floor. “Ah, good,” he said, coming back up and dropping a towel on Garrett's chest. “My laziness comes in handy once again.”

“You just happened to have this here,” Garrett said skeptically, wiping his hand clean. Anders didn't reply, instead leaning over the side of the bed again and holding up another two towels and a shirt. Garrett rolled his eyes. “All right, so you don't plan ahead, you're just a slob.”

“You really know how to make a man feel special, Garrett,” Anders said as he dropped his laundry back to the floor and stretched out beside him. Garrett shrugged, wrapping his arm around Anders's shoulders. Anders chuckled and draped an arm around his waist. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a cuddler,” he commented.

“Would you rather I just got dressed and left?” he asked acerbically.

“Assuming your legs were working,” Anders retorted, smirking. “And I don’t want that, it’s just—I don’t know, you’re always so standoffish. It’s surprising. Nice, but surprising.”

Garrett shrugged and reached up to straighten out the pillow under his head. “Whatever. Cuddling’s awesome.”

Anders laughed at that, giggling into Garrett’s shoulder. Garrett just smirked and let his eyes close. “We ought to do this again sometime,” Anders said after a few minutes. “You’re quite fun.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Garrett replied.

“Flatterer.” Anders rolled his shoulders, shifting around a bit. Garrett opened his eyes as Anders suddenly straightened up. “That-- that's all this was, right? Fun?”

“Yeah,” Garrett said immediately. “Of course.” He'd known going into it that this was all Anders wanted from him. It was probably for the best, anyway. A few good shags would get the infatuation out of his system and he could move on.

Anders nodded and laid back down, his head on Garrett's shoulder. Garrett stared up at the ceiling and tried to ignore the weird, hollow feeling that had settled into his chest. Anders reached across him and picked up his arm, running his fingers over the scar over his wrist. “What's this from?” he asked.

“Had a run-in with a shovel,” Garrett replied. “The shovel won.”

“Well, I don't know about that,” Anders said. “You're still here, so clearly it wasn't a total victory.” Garrett smirked in spite of himself. “So, what happened?” Anders prompted.

“It's Carver's fault, really,” Garrett began, and Anders laughed.


	5. Chapter Four

_18 Justinian 9:32 Dragon_

Anders leaned against the windowsill of the infirmary and peered out into the courtyard. The peasants were still out there, shouting and waving pitchforks around. Anders found that he didn’t like being on this side of an uprising very much. It made him feel inexplicably guilty, even though he was sure that he wasn’t personally responsible for whatever they were unhappy about. At least Justice wasn’t out there with them. That would have been awkward.

Ser Pounce-a-Lot stood up from his seat on the sill and pawed at Anders’s arm. Anders scooped up the kitten and settled him on his shoulder, all without taking his eyes off the protestors. Soldiers had surrounded the entrance to the Keep proper, and they were looking a bit edgy.

The clinic door closed behind him. Anders glanced over his unoccupied shoulder and smiled as Garrett made his way over. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Garrett came to a stop just behind him and looked out the window. “Surana’s heading out to talk to them.”

“What do they want, anyway?” Anders asked.

Garrett shrugged and leaned in, bracing his hands on the windowsill, effectively trapping Anders. Anders didn’t mind all that much. “For the soldiers to guard the fields instead of the roads, as far as I can tell,” he replied. “The darkspawn have attacked some of the farms. I can understand why they’re anxious. But safe fields aren’t much use if no one can travel the roads to get to them.”

Anders nodded. They stood in silence, watching the crowd, until Pounce shifted position and Garrett suddenly went tense. “Um. Hello,” he said cautiously, as Pounce stepped delicately from Anders’s shoulder to Garrett’s.

“Aw, see?” Anders said, looking back at Garrett, who was eying the kitten with trepidation. “I told you he likes you.”

“He’s very small,” Garrett said. He glanced at Pounce out of the corner of his eye as the kitten sniffed his hair. “I don’t want to break him.”

“You won’t,” Anders reassured him. Garrett didn’t appear convinced. Pounce, on the other hand, finished his investigation of Garrett’s hair and perched on his shoulder, tail swishing back and forth in contentment. Garrett shot Anders a pleading look; Anders chuckled, taking pity on him, and reached out to reclaim his cat. Pounce mewed tragically as Anders settled him back on the windowsill.

A dull roar from outside drew his attention back to the window. Surana appeared on the steps, flanked by Varel and Garavel. She spoke to the crowd; someone shouted back, and the mob jeered, the noise muffled by the glass. Anders winced. “That doesn’t look good,” he murmured.

“No, it doesn’t,” Garrett agreed. There was a bit of back and forth between Surana and the self-appointed leader of the mob. Then she shook her head and gestured at Garavel. The captain nodded to his men, and the soldiers closed in, pushing the peasants back with their shields.

A blade flashed in the midday sun. Anders couldn’t tell if it belonged to a soldier or a peasant, but ultimately, it didn’t matter. The peasants pushed back, raising their impromptu weapons, and the soldiers drew their swords.

“Oh, shit,” Garrett hissed. He spun around and bolted for the door. Anders followed, pausing to grab his staff and to sweep poultices into a satchel, then ran after Garrett towards the front of the Keep.

The noise hit him first: the chaotic screams and shouts, the clash of steel on steel, the muted thud of a body against dirt. Neria and Garrett had waded into the crowd, and, almost in unison, touched their hands to their foreheads and detonated stunning blasts. Anders swallowed hard. He’d been trained for this, technically, though the enchanters in the tower had assumed that he was facing anything this large-scale, it would be on a battlefield and he'd have help. Managing injuries from a riot on his own hadn't been in the lessons.

A pair of soldiers staggered out from the edge of the crowd, dragging a battered, bloody man between them. Anders drew in a deep breath. Right. He could do this. “Bring the wounded here,” he called, gesturing at a clear space beside the fortress wall. The soldiers obeyed, surprisingly, and dumped the unconscious man at Anders’s feet. They headed back into the fray. Anders ignored them and knelt in the dirt, his training taking over as he checked the man’s injuries. Broken bones and bruises—trampled, most likely. His focus narrowed to his magic and the body in front of him; he worked quickly but carefully, repairing the damage as best he could.

After the trampled man came a woman with a gut wound, then a soldier with a broken jaw, and on and on and on. The roar of the mob faded and disappeared, eventually, though Anders only noticed it around the time that he realized the woman he’d been giving brusque orders to was Bethany. He blinked at her, a bit confused; she smiled and patted his shoulder before grabbing another poultice and kneeling beside a soldier with a black eye.

He finished with the broken knee in front of him, smiling vaguely at the woman’s gratitude, and looked around the courtyard. The dirt was stained with blood, and soldiers dragged bodies out of the worst of the summer sun. Uninjured peasants had been corralled near one of the outer buildings, guarded by over a dozen soldiers, and as Anders watched, more soldiers approached to take his recently healed patients away.

Neria stood in the middle of it all, lips pressed together in a thin line, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Garrett towered over her, arms folded. “—perfectly reasonable fear!” he was saying, his voice brittle.

Varel, lurking a few steps behind Neria, shook his head. “If the farmers revolted on their own, I’ll eat my boot,” he said.

Neria nodded. “Find out who was behind this, Hawke,” she ordered. “Someone is responsible for this madness and I _will_ know who.” She turned on her heel and stalked back into the Keep, Varel following behind.

“Yes, Commander,” Garrett ground out. He stalked over to a pair of soldiers and jerked his thumb at the slowly growing pile of bodies. He said something in a low voice; one of the soldiers grimaced, but they both obeyed and walked over. Anders winced as they began searching the corpses.

The worst of the wounded had been tended to, and Anders turned his attention to patching up scrapes and bruises and sprains. “When did you get here?” he asked Bethany as she helped one of the soldiers to her feet.

“As soon as the fighting stopped,” she said. “I was working with the recruits when it started. Carver’s probably around here somewhere, too.” She shook her head. “Unless he had the sense to run home so that Garrett wouldn’t catch him.”

Anders glanced over at Garrett. He’d moved to the contained protestors, asking questions while a few soldiers searched them. Anders sighed and looked away. “Thanks for the help,” he said with a smile at Bethany. “You might want to get home, too. Your brother probably won’t take _your_ participation in this little adventure very well.”

She sighed. “He never does.” She offered Anders a hand up and smiled at him as he stood. “You should let Garrett talk you into coming over for dinner sometime. Once all this calms down a bit, anyway.”

“If he offers, I won’t say no,” Anders replied. “See you around, Bethany.”

Bethany waved and hurried across the courtyard, swinging out towards the well in order to avoid the blood and the bodies. Anders grabbed his satchel and headed towards the arrested peasants. “Anyone here injured?” he asked, looking the group over.

“Just scrapes and bruises, healer,” one of the soldiers replied. “Nothing to worry about.”

One man in the group had a bloody nose, and one of the women had a nasty bruise on her right cheek. “I’ll be the judge of that, I think,” Anders said lightly and stepped past the soldiers.

“Ser,” one of the soldiers said, approaching Garrett with a folded scrap of paper in his hand. “We found this.” Anders split his attention between Garrett and setting the peasant’s broken nose.

Garrett’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched, then he refolded the paper and glared at the group. “Who?” he asked sharply. The soldier gestured at the man Anders was healing. Anders sighed quietly. Of course. “Bring him.”

A pair of soldiers moved in. Anders shook his head. “Give me a moment,” he said, hands glowing with healing energy.

“Leave it, Anders,” Garrett snapped.

Anders glared at him over his shoulder. “He’s not going to be able to talk with a broken nose,” he replied. “Unless your plan is to let him choke to death on his own blood, let me finish.”

A muscle twitched in Garrett’s neck. “Fine.”

“ _Thank_ you.” He finished the healing spell and moved aside. The soldiers pulled the man to his feet and marched him over to Garrett. Anders crouched beside the woman with the bruised face and let out a weary sigh. Maker, but he was going to sleep like the dead tonight.

“Where did you get this?” Garrett asked, holding up the letter.

The man didn’t reply. Garrett sighed. “If you cooperate, I will be inclined to advise the arlessa to be merciful, but you’ve been found with evidence of a conspiracy to commit high treason on your person. How well do you think your family’s farm will fare with you dead?”

“It was Ser Timothy.” One of the other prisoners spoke up; several people turned to stare at him, and he shrugged. “I don’t fancy a dance at the end of a rope. The coin we was promised ain’t worth it.”

The man in front of Garrett nodded tensely. “He’s tellin’ the truth. Ser Timothy’s men gave us the letters, said we were to see him about pay.”

Garrett frowned at the paper, then back up at the prisoners. “You’re certain?” There was a general murmur of assent from the group. He sighed and nodded, turning his attention to the lieutenant. “Very well. They’re in the Captain’s hands, now.”

Anders finished with his healing and made his way out of the crowd. “Make sure they get water, or you move them out of the sun soon,” he said. “Otherwise people will start getting heatstroke.”

“Yes, ser,” one of the soldiers said.

Garrett headed for the Keep; Anders hurried along behind him. “You don’t think it was Ser Timothy?” he asked. The man had been in custody for only a couple days; he could have organized the riot before his arrest.

“It’s not his handwriting,” Garrett replied. “I spent a week looking at his documents, and this was not written by him.” He shouldered the door open and stalked into the fortress. “It looks familiar, but I just can’t place it…” Garrett exhaled sharply and shook his head. “I have to talk to Surana,” he muttered. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah,” Anders agreed. He watched Garrett until the other man disappeared up the stairs, then sighed and headed for the infirmary. He needed to replenish his stores of potions and poultices anyway.

*

 _22 Justinian 9:32 Dragon_

“All I'm saying,” Anders concluded, “is that since these people seem to be so fanatical, executing members of their little conspiracy might be counter-productive. It's just giving them martyrs and further evidence that Neria's a terrible, evil despot.”

Garrett blinked at the ceiling. “This has got to be the weirdest pillow talk ever.”

Anders chuckled and raked a hand through Garrett's chest hair. “You're the one who brought it up.”

“That's not all I brought up,” he muttered, smirking.

Anders snorted. “Yes, yes, you're a virile sex god, you make men swoon and women pregnant as you pass by, congratulations.”

Garrett grinned. “I'm so glad _someone_ recognizes my divinity.”

Anders laughed again and shook his head. “It's still sort of weird, y'know? That little Neria's going around accusing people of high treason and ordering executions.”

“What was she like in the Circle?” Garrett asked, settling in against the pillows. Anders was chatty after sex; a couple times, he'd dozed off in mid-sentence, which Garrett secretly found adorable.

“Quiet,” Anders said. “Not nearly so bossy, either. No idea where that came from.”

“I'd imagine that stopping the blight had something to do with it.”

“Mm. Maybe.” Anders shifted position, wrapping his arm around Garrett's waist. “She was always very loyal, though. I knew she wouldn't sell me out to the Templars, tell them when I was planning my next escape or something.”

“Did she ever try to run?”

“No, she had more sense than that,” he replied with a wry laugh. “She wanted to be able to get out of the Tower legitimately one day and running away every other year wasn't a good way to earn that privilege.” Anders shook his head. “Honestly, I'm not sure she understood _why_ I kept running. She barely remembered her life before the Circle.”

“And you did?” Garrett asked.

“I remembered enough to know that running back to my family on my escapes would be a poor plan,” Anders replied with false lightness. “Speaking of escapes, I've been wondering-- how'd your father manage to pull it off? The phylacteries are an effective system, unfortunately.”

An obvious subject change if ever he'd heard one. Not entirely surprising, though. If Anders's family hadn't fought to stay together, the way the Hawkes had... Garrett could understand not wanting to talk about it. “A Templar helped,” Garrett said. “Destroyed his phylactery for him.”

“Hmph. And what'd he want in return, I wonder?” Anders's voice turned bitter.

Garrett shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing, as far as I know. Father considered him a friend.”

“Right. A 'friend' who probably took a leg or a twin brother or a first-born child or something.”

He rolled his eyes. “My father had all his limbs attached, he didn't know any of his family, and given the fact that I was born six months after my parents left Kirkwall, I'm pretty sure _I'm_ the eldest.”

“Ooh, how scandalous,” Anders said.

“Ditching your betrothed to run off with the apostate whose child you're carrying? Yeah, pretty scandalous,” Garrett agreed. “It took the blight to get Mother to consider going back to Kirkwall.”

Anders shook his head, his loose hair tickling Garrett's neck. “Couldn't pay me enough to go there, blight or no,” he said. “Too many Templars.”

“Where were you planning on running to?” Garrett asked. He turned his head towards Anders, brushing his lips against the other man's hair in an almost-kiss. “I can't imagine you planned on staying in Amaranthine.”

“Actually, I was,” Anders said. “At least for a while. I had a friend trying to track down my phylactery. Supposedly they'd moved them to Amaranthine for safekeeping during the blight. If I found that, well, then I could have just disappeared.”

“Hm.” Garrett frowned. “I don't remember hearing anything about that. But I've never had many contacts in the chantry.”

Anders chuckled. “So there _is_ something in the arling that you don't know about. Ha!”

“Or you're wrong and the phylacteries weren't here,” Garrett replied with a smirk. “In fact, until you prove otherwise, I'm just going to keep on believing that I _do_ know everything.”

“And you said _I_ had an ego problem,” Anders muttered. Garrett snickered. Anders started to say something else, but cut himself off with a yawn. “...apparently I need to sleep or something,” he said.

“Or something.” Garrett moved his arm so Anders could reposition himself; cuddling was fine while they were talking, but they both tossed and turned too much for that to work while they slept. Anders rolled over and buried his face in his pillow, hugging it tight in his arms. Garrett smirked and started to reach out to brush Anders's hair out of his face, then drew his hand back. They were sleeping together, but somehow that gesture felt too intimate. With a sigh, he turned onto his side and closed his eyes.

Some time later, he started awake, blinking at the dark ceiling, his ears ringing with an echoed cry. Anders was sitting up in bed, gasping for breath, almost doubled over with one arm wrapped around his stomach. Garrett could feel him shaking at the few points where their bodies still touched. “Anders?” he slurred, still half-asleep.

Anders drew in a ragged breath. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Go back to sleep.”

Garrett shook his head, despite the fact that Anders couldn't see it, and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Nightmare?”

“Mm.” Anders took a few deep breaths, fingers slowly clenching and unclenching in the blanket. Pounce paced back and forth across his legs, looking as concerned as a half-grown kitten could. Garrett frowned. Pounce always ended up on the bed, and while Garrett hadn't crushed or kicked him yet, he couldn't shake the fear that someday he was going to do irreparable harm to the cat.

With a sigh, Garrett sat up fully. He started to reach for Anders's back, then hesitated. Anders had made it very clear that he did not like having his scars touched. He'd tolerate it a heat-of-the-moment slip, but anything deliberate and he withdrew. Garrett's fingers twitched as he hovered for a few moments, before he finally placed his hand on the back of Anders's neck. Anders jumped at the contact, but didn't shy away. Garrett lightly rubbed his thumb across the other man's skin. “D'you wanna talk about it?” he offered.

Anders shook his head. “'m fine,” he mumbled. “Sorry. This isn't what you signed up for.”

Garrett shrugged. “I'm used to it,” he said. “I had to share a room with Beth for a while. She'd wake up screaming any time a demon approached her in the Fade.” He sighed. “Do you know how often demons come after a nine-year-old mage?”

“Quite often,” Anders replied. “From what I recall of the apprentice dorms.” He finally turned towards Garrett and managed a wan smile. “I'm fine. Really.”

Garrett smiled back and slid his hand to Anders's shoulder, tugging him back down to the bed. Anders went more or less willingly, a bit tense as Garrett pulled him down against his chest. Pounce stalked up the length of the bed and curled up on Garrett's chest too, almost nose-to-nose with Anders.

Anders smiled and relaxed, reaching up to scratch Pounce behind the ears before glancing up at Garrett. “Is he okay there?”

Garrett frowned slightly. “If you promise not to hold it against me if I crush him in my sleep, then yes,” he said.

“You won't crush him,” Anders said. He draped an arm across Garrett's waist and sighed quietly.

Garrett swallowed hard and stared up at the dark ceiling, listening as Anders's breathing evened out. Maker, but he was in over his head.

*

 _24 Justinian 9:32 Dragon_

Anders pulled his hands back from the recruit's leg and nodded. “There,” he said. “Good as... well, not new, but as good as it was _before_ you got stabbed.” He grabbed a rag and wiped the blood off his hands. “And maybe next time don't use live steel when you're practicing? I doubt the captain would be impressed with your devotion to duty if you end up losing a leg over it.”

The young man nodded. “Yes, ser,” he said. Anders frowned slightly. He still wasn't used to people calling him that. “Can I go?”

“Yes. If it starts bothering you again, though, let me know.” He walked the recruit to the door and ushered him out, then exhaled heavily. He'd assumed that serving as healer at a military fortress would be more work than this. There were days like the riot where he had plenty of patients, but most of the time, it was slower than the Tower. At least here he wasn't required to heal Templars who'd been injured chasing down apostates or hand newborns over to Tranquil mages instead of their mothers.

Something crashed to the ground behind him, and he spun around to see Pounce peering over the edge of his workbench, an empty potion bottle shattered on the floor. Anders sighed. “Yes, Pounce, good job, you found gravity,” he muttered. “Again.” He'd given up on convincing the kitten to stop knocking things off ledges; the new tactic was to leave soft, unbreakable things around for Pounce to play with. He must've forgotten the potion bottle earlier in the day, though. With a sigh, he crouched down to sweep it up. Pounce hopped onto his back and peered over his shoulder.

“You're lucky you're cute,” he grumbled without much rancor. Pounce swatted at his earring and jumped to the floor, wandering off to cause destruction elsewhere.

Anders gathered all the shards in his palm, triple-checking the floor to make sure no fragments were left for Pounce to step on, and stood up. He was halfway to the wastebin when a pained, wordless shout echoed down the hall. Anders quickly dumped the glass into the bin and walked to the door. Maybe someone had just stubbed their toe--

“The arlessa's reign ends here!” a cold female voice yelled, followed by the clang of steel and the familiar _whoosh_ of a fireball. Anders swore under his breath, grabbed his staff, and bolted towards the throne room.

The assassination attempt was already well underway when he shouldered the side door open. There was a knot of combatants near the firepit in the middle of the room; Anders could pick out Neria by the glowing and Oghren by the bellowing. Varel was slumped against the wall by the door, cradling his right arm, while Garavel and Nathaniel stood over him and pushed back any of the would-be assassins who got too close. Anders ducked behind a pillar and cast a haste spell.

Garrett crashed through the door on the far side of the room, staff in hand, and started casting as he ran towards Neria and Oghren. One of the fighters, a figure in steel armor, glowed red briefly. Anders hoped that Garrett hadn't cast his exploding-person spell, because that would _never_ come out of the rugs, then something to his right clicked quietly. Garrett yelped and twisted to the side, clutching at his stomach as he fell.

For a second, Anders couldn't breathe. He spun towards the shooter, green light flying from the end of his staff as he cast a paralysis rune, then broke into a run across the room. “Nathaniel!” he shouted, jerking his thumb at the man. The bowmen could have a shootout, for all he cared. He dropped to his knees beside Garrett, who had one hand wrapped around the bolt embedded in his side. His other hand gripped his staff like a lifeline.

“'s not even that big,” Garrett muttered in absent confusion. “Don't see why it hurts so much.”

“It's probably poisoned,” Anders replied. He pried Garrett's hand off the bolt. “Sorry.”

“For wh--” His question cut off in a cry of pain as Anders yanked the bolt out.

Anders winced and pressed his glowing hands to Garrett's chest, letting his magic seek out the poison. “This part's going to hurt too,” he muttered. Ordinarily, purging a toxin was something he took his time with, but given the circumstances, he had to sacrifice comfort for speed.

“Son of a...” Garrett gritted his teeth, fingers digging into the bloodsoaked rug, as Anders poured healing magic into him. Too much, too fast, and Anders knew from personal experience that it burned horribly.

“Sorry, sorry.” Anders risked a glance around to make sure no one was about to come up and skewer him. Most of the would-be assassins were on the floor, bleeding out onto the carpets. Neria and Oghren had cornered the crossbow-wielding assassin; there was a loud crunching sound and a splash of blood against the wall, then everything went still.

Anders let out a breath and ended the spell. “Thanks,” Garrett said as they got to their feet. “Also, ouch. But mostly thanks.” Anders smiled and nodded, then hurried across the room to Varel. He'd taken a crossbow bolt through the wrist.

“Just tell me I won't lose the hand, healer,” Varel ground out as Anders prodded at the wound.

“You'll be fine,” he said. “Though you're going to want to bite down on something.” Garavel immediately handed over a glove. Varel held it in his teeth with his other hand and closed his eyes. Anders snapped the end of the bolt off, then pulled it free, ignoring Varel's muffled grunt of pain. Blood gushed from the wound; Anders clamped his hands around it, his magic knitting the flesh back together.

Neria kicked one of the bodies over and scowled. “Bann Esmerelle,” she said. “I _knew_ it.”

“So did I,” Garrett said, leaning heavily on his staff. “I just hadn't found enough evidence to prove it.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Commander. This was my fault.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “They probably knew we were closing in,” she said. “This wasn't exactly the most organized of assassination attempts.”

Anders raised an eyebrow. “Are you an expert on the subject, now?”

“Married to an Antivan Crow, remember?” Neria shrugged. “I picked up a few things.”

“Well, you might want to have a word with your spouse about his associates,” Nathaniel said from his position crouched beside the dead crossbowman. He tossed a small, sheathed blade to her. Neria turned it over and frowned. “Hiring Crows... they _really_ wanted you dead, Commander.”

“I hadn't noticed,” she replied dryly. “I have to say, though, I'm growing less and less impressed with the Crows. They keep trying to kill me. Trying, and then failing quite spectacularly.”

“Maybe you're just that awesome,” Anders suggested as he got to his feet, holding his bloody hands palm-up in an effort to keep from ruining his robes.

“Also a plausible explanation,” she agreed with a smirk. “Varel, are you all right?”

“I am now, m'lady,” he said. “Anders saw to that.”

She nodded. “Go back to the infirmary with him anyway,” she said. “Anders, make sure he's taken care of. He saved my life.”

“Of course.” Anders nodded at her.

“And Hawke, while I'm reasonably certain these are the ringleaders,” Neria continued, “I want to know for certain that no one else is coming after me.”

“Yes, Commander.” Garrett knelt beside Esmerelle's body and began checking the pouches on her belt.

“Garavel, have your men clean this up,” she ordered. “I, for one, am going to have a stiff drink.”

“Finally, a good idea,” Oghren said.

Garavel helped Varel to his feet. Anders glanced at them, then took a few steps in Garrett's direction. “Garrett--”

“Not now, Anders,” he said, eyes locked on a scrap of parchment. “I really can't afford any more distractions.”

Anders blinked at him. “Right,” he said after a few moments, willing himself to ignore the cold knot settling into his stomach. “I'll let you work.” He turned on his heel and gestured for Varel to follow him back to the infirmary. He had a job to do, just like Garrett. And when he was done, he was going to follow Neria's example and get a damned drink.

*

 _28 Justinian 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett leaned back from his desk and winced when his back cracked. He'd barely left his office in the past three days, but at least now he was certain that the conspiracy against Surana began and ended with Esmerelle. He'd reviewed nearly every scrap of paper the soldiers had found in her estate, and if she was working with someone else, there was no sign of it. This particular conspiracy was finished. There would be others who'd want the arlessa dead, of course. Garrett grinned mirthlessly at the door. It was job security, morbid as it was.

He'd give his report to Surana in the morning, he decided as he stood up. One less thing for her to worry about while she was off investigating the darkspawn infestation to the west. Garrett stepped into the hall and locked his office behind him. Anders was leaving with her, in a few days. And it had been a while since he'd seen the man-- he'd been shut up with his work, and Anders had been... elsewhere, he supposed. Certainly not coming to pester him, which was probably for the best, no matter how much Garrett missed the interruptions.

Garrett paused as he reached the main hall of the Keep. The stairs to the second floor were right there. Bethany and Carver probably weren't expecting him home anytime soon, given the late hours he'd been working the past few nights, and he did sort of owe Anders for that whole saving-his-life business. With a shrug, Garrett turned and bounded up the stairs. Maybe he could wheedle a post-coital massage out of the healer. His back was a complete mess.

He raised a hand to knock on the door, then stopped with his knuckles a few inches away from the wood. Anders chuckled and said something, his voice too low for Garrett to make out the words, then someone moaned. When the bed creaked in an all-too-familiar way, Garrett stepped back and slowly made his way to the stairs. It shouldn't have been such a surprise, really. Anders had said it was just fun between friends. They hadn't made any claims on each other. He'd been buried in his work, it was no wonder that Anders went out and found someone else to entertain himself with.

Garrett trudged into the courtyard and started to head towards home. He stopped after a few steps, frowning, then turned towards the gates and the village outside the walls. Bethany and Carver would still be up, and he didn't want to deal with their questions. They weren't expecting him home early tonight. He'd just go hide out in the tavern for a few hours and go home after they were in bed.

The bar was half-empty, occupied mostly by merchants and wagon-drivers passing through between Amaranthine and Denerim. Garrett found a seat at the end of the bar and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“What're you having?”

“Just a pint,” Garrett mumbled.

The bartender nodded and brought the drink over. Garrett wordlessly slid over a few coppers. “If you're looking for the blonde flirty one,” the bartender said, “he left with one of the guards about an hour ago.”

“I know.” Garrett grimaced at his mug. “I'm not looking for him.”

“All right. Let me know when you want another.”

He sighed and wondered if it was really so clear that he'd be having more than one drink. Garrett took a long swallow of ale, staring blankly at the wall behind the bar. He managed to keep from thinking about much of anything at all through the rest of his first mug and about half of the second. But by the time he set the empty mug down again and waved at the bartender for a third, he was chasing his thoughts in circles, alternately cursing Anders for being so—so _Anders_ and cursing himself for even getting worked up about it. He'd known what this... this _thing_ between them was going into it.

Garrett sighed and stared down into the mug. Maybe it was for the best that Anders would be away for a while. He needed to focus on his work, get his priorities straightened out again. Those assassins had gotten through on his watch. If he hadn't been so distracted by a certain healer, maybe he'd have caught them in time. Surana had said they'd probably be gone at least a week, judging by how their previous expeditions had gone.

The thought of not seeing Anders for that long left a twinge in his chest. Garrett sighed. There were still a couple nights before they left for the Knotwood Hills. Maybe he could stop by and see Anders before then. He did still owe the man for saving his life.

*

 _1 Solace 9:32 Dragon_

“You're in an awfully cheery mood for someone going to hunt darkspawn,” Neria said, lightly elbowing Anders in the side as they strolled along the road to the Knotwood Hills.

He shrugged and grinned. “It's a nice day. I'm going to enjoy it.”

“And your nice _night_ yesterday has nothing to do with it?”

Anders just chuckled and fluttered his eyelashes innocently. Garrett's reappearance in his room last night did have more than a little to do with his good mood. Garrett had offered him a kiss for good luck; given everything he'd done _after_ the kiss, Anders was pretty sure he was going to return from this little expedition with his phylactery destroyed, a deed to an estate on the coast, and a whole basket of kittens.

Although maybe the last one wasn't such a good idea. He wasn't sure how good Pounce was at sharing.

As though summoned by Anders's thoughts, Pounce stirred and climbed out of his designated pocket. Anders helped the cat up to his shoulder. “Good morning, Ser Pounce-a-Lot,” he said, scratching him behind the ears. “Ready for another adventure?” Neria chuckled at him and wandered ahead to speak to Velanna, whose mood seemed to have improved now that she was out of the Keep.

Pounce meowed in what Anders assumed was whole-hearted agreement. Anders grinned as Pounce headbutted his ear. “That's a good kitty.”

“I see that your feline companion remains with you,” Justice said, falling in step beside Anders. He looked a little less actively decayed now; Anders had done a bit of research on preservation spells and found a couple that would delay the inevitable rotting. If nothing else, it lessened the stench.

“He seems happy enough,” Anders agreed. “Isn't that right, Ser Pounce-a-Lot?” Pounce meowed and nuzzled the side of his head.

Justice did not look pleased. “To enslave another creature does not seem just.”

“He's not a slave!” Anders retorted. “He's a friend. And he's also a cat.”

“A cat that lacks freedom.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “Just ignore him, Pounce. They don't have pets in the Fade, apparently.”

Pounce meowed again and finally settled himself into the feathers on Anders's shoulder. Justice watched, frowning, then looked away. They walked in silence for a few minutes before Anders let his curiosity win out. “So, Justice,” he began, “I've been meaning to ask you. Why do spirits seek out mages?”

Justice frowned. He did that a lot. “You speak of demons. I am not a demon.”

“Aren't demons simply spirits with unique and sparkling personalities?” Anders teased.

“They have been perverted by their desires,” Justice replied. He didn't look amused.

“But what do they want from mages?” Perhaps if he knew _why_ demons of rage and pride and desire kept flitting around his dreams, they'd be easier to send on their way. As it was, dreaming could be downright exhausting, with all the running and evading and occasionally fighting.

“Perhaps they wish the same as I,” Justice snapped. “Silence.”

Anders granted him approximately half a minute's worth of his request. “Are you saying you could become a demon?” he asked.

Justice did a double-take. Anders bit his tongue to keep from snickering. “I said no such thing.”

“You said that demons were spirits perverted by the desires,” Anders said. “So...”

“I have no such desires.”

Anders snorted. “You must have some desires...” To not be in a rotting corpse, for one. Or perhaps to free all cat-kind from supposed enslavement.

“I have none!” Justice snapped. “Desist your questions!”

Anders blinked, a bit taken aback by the spirit's harsh tone. They fell into an awkward silence, broken only by the sound of Pounce pointedly cleaning his ears. Justice was scowling at the road under his feet as they walked. Anders chewed on his lower lip and eyed him nervously. “I apologize, Justice,” he said, resisting the urge to fidget with the belt on his robes. “I didn't mean to suggest you would become a demon.”

“I should certainly hope not,” Justice replied flatly.

Anders winced. “I just wondered what relation there is between spirits and demons. Demons are a worry to any mage.”

Justice sighed. “I do not know what makes demons as they are. Such evil angers me, but I do not understand it.”

“Well, I hope you never come to understand.”

“As do I, mage,” Justice replied, sounding very, very old. “More than you could possibly know.”

Silence fell again, this one more companionable than uncomfortable. None of this had answered his questions, though. And it wasn't often that a mage was able to just chat with a spirit about these things. “Okay, so, acknowledging that _you_ are not a demon and won't become one, you must know _something_ about them. You're all in the Fade together, right?”

Justice shook his head. “I do not converse with demons.”

“Well, no, but they must talk to each other. Maybe you overheard them?” Anders dropped his voice a few octaves. “'Oh, I want to possess the ruggedly handsome blonde mage because...'” He rolled his hand in the air, gesturing for Justice to finish.

The spirit didn't take the bait. “I do not know why demons wish to come to this realm.”

Anders sighed and rolled his eyes. “Right, because it's so _dismal_ , of course.”

Justice didn't reply right away. “It is... not as I believed,” he finally said. “Your world is unchanging.”

“It changes all the time!” Anders said, laughing. “The weather changes, seasons change, people change...”

“It is within context,” Justice said. He pointed at a tall oak tree near the road. “That tree has been there and will continue to be there.”

“Unless someone chops it down or a storm blows it over or something.”

Justice nodded. “But if it changes, there is context. There is a reason. In the Fade, things simply appear or vanish. Spirits create and destroy without any reason. It cannot be predicted or explained.”

“Hm.” Anders frowned, absently reaching up to scratch Pounce's head. “That is unsettling.”

“Until I saw your world, I did not think so,” Justice said. “It was simply the way of things. But here... here things have a reason, a purpose.”

“Maybe that's why demons want to possess mages?” Anders suggested.

Justice's expression darkened. “Perhaps.”

They didn't speak much in the hours that followed, both of them lost in thought as they continued down the road to Knotwood Hills. Neria seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood, bouncing from person to person to chat with them as they walked. Anders guessed that she took some comfort in knowing that the most active conspiracy against her had been dealt with.

The sun had almost disappeared below the horizon when they reached the chasm. “These hunters tripped and fell into _this_ without noticing,” Velanna said, peering over the edge of the gorge. “How?”

“No idea,” Neria muttered. “Come on. Let's take a look before it gets too dark.”

Anders grimaced. “I don't much like the idea of fighting darkspawn in the... well, in the dark.”

“Which is why we're checking it out now,” she replied, leading them across a narrow, decidedly unstable wooden bridge. “So that we don't get attacked while we're sleeping.”

Anders sighed, unable to argue with her logic but still generally unhappy with it. The buzzing in his head grew steadily louder as they descended the stairs into the bottom of the chasm. Anders fell back behind the others, swallowing hard as he recognized the architecture of the Deep Roads. Despite the heat, he shivered as he passed under the rocky overhang and away from the open sky.

Neria and Justice both drew their blades as they neared the bottom of the steep incline. Anders wondered if the taint still lingered in Kristoff's dead and congealing blood; he shuddered and readied his staff as the buzzing in his skull peaked. He could hear the darkspawn outside his head now, as well, chittering and growling at each other.

“No!” a female voice shouted from around the corner, and Neria broke into a run. Anders followed, skidding to a stop behind her, as a dwarf in heavy armor and a truly ridiculous horned helmet scrambled to her feet and bolted away from the darkspawn. Neria fired a blast of lightning over the dwarf's head, drawing the darkspawn's attention, while the dwarf grabbed at the pair of axes on the ground.

With a wordless roar, Justice raced past, shield raised, to engage the darkspawn. The dwarf charged after him, spinning and hacking at the creatures' knees. Velanna and Neria blasted them with fire and ice, while Anders put his back to a support pillar and conjured up a paralysis rune where the darkspawn were thickest. The darkspawn clearly hadn't been expecting to fight a trio of mages and a warrior in addition to the dual-wielding dwarf, and in mere minutes, they were dead.

The dwarf tugged off her helmet, revealing a face covered in tattoos and surprisingly adorable pigtails, and smiled up at Neria. “Well, that was... close. For a moment there I thought I was _really_ about to join the Legion of the Dead.”

“Are you all right?” Neria asked.

The dwarf shrugged. “I might have cracked a rib,” she said. “It's hard to tell. Everything hurts.”

Anders, who had started moved at 'cracked,' dropped to one knee beside her. “I'm a healer,” he explained with his most reassuring smile. “If I may?”

She grinned at him. “I'm not about to say no to healing.”

“Thank the Maker,” he murmured as he placed a gentle hand on the back of her neck. “Most people I try to heal tell me that they're fine, they don't need it, they can stop the bleeding through sheer force of will.” Anders only half-listened to his own words; most of his attention was focused on sending tendrils of healing magic through her, cataloging the damage. Two cracked ribs, hairline fracture in her hip, extensive bruises and cuts...

The dwarf snorted and rolled her eyes. “Some people are just so stubborn,” she replied. Anders bit back a happy sigh. She was a kindred spirit, he could tell already.

“You're in the Legion?” Neria asked.

The dwarf glanced up at her. “You know of the Legion of the Dead?” she asked, clearly startled. “Wow. I wouldn't have expected that of a surfacer.”

Neria shrugged. “We're Grey Wardens.”

“Oh! That makes sense, then.” The dwarf shook her head. “Thank you for the help, but I'm afraid I can't chat long. I... should go back, foolish as that sounds. See if there's anything I can do.”

“Back where?” Neria asked, and Anders felt his heart sink. Wherever this dwarf was going, so were they, he just knew it.

“The old fortress of Kal'Hirol,” the dwarf replied. “There's something going on there. The darkspawn are breeding an army.”

“Breeding?” Velanna asked, sounding disgusted. For once, Anders agreed with her. “Those things... breed?”

“Broodmothers,” Neria replied absently. “I'll explain later. Or, if we're really unlucky, you'll get first-hand experience.”

The dwarf grimaced and nodded. “The Legion was sent to investigate, but Kal'Hirol proved too much for us. It was a massacre. And now I... I'm the only one left.” She hung her head.

“We came here to investigate the darkspawn as well,” Neria said. “We might all stand a better chance of surviving if you came with us.”

Anders sighed and got to his feet. The dwarf beamed up at Neria. “That would be most appreciated,” she said. “Thank you. My name is Sigrun. Come. If we hurry, we can make it back to Kal'Hirol within the hour.”

“Lead on,” Neria said, gesturing at the dark tunnel ahead of them. Sigrun put her helmet back on and turned away. Anders swallowed hard, then jumped at the touch of a hand on his elbow. “Will you be all right?” Neria asked quietly.

He forced himself to smile. “Don't have much of a choice, now do I?”

She sighed and nodded in reluctant agreement. “C'mon,” she murmured. “Let's go.”

Anders drew in a final breath of clean, fresh air, and followed them into the darkness.

*

 _7 Solace 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett sprawled out on the bench and stretched his legs out in front of him, reading over the latest missive from one of his contacts in South Hafter. He wasn't reading it very closely, but then, it didn't really require much attention. Nothing new to report, same as nearly all his contacts and across the arling. The darkspawn were still roving the countryside, preventing the region from recovering from the blight and the war. Until the Wardens dealt with the darkspawn, things weren't going to get any better.

At least there weren't any active assassination plots to worry about. Garrett sighed and folded the letter, sticking it into his belt, and tucked his hands behind his head. Carver and Oghren were on the practice field, comparing weapon styles and laughing about something. Garrett sighed. While he was glad to see Carver doing something other than pretend to be Varel's latest recruit, he wasn't entirely sure lessons from Oghren were the best alternative.

Bethany's laughter carried down the field from the archery targets. Nathaniel was shooting arrows, while she attempted to light them on fire in mid-air. Going by the scorches in the dirt and the unharmed arrows in the targets, she wasn't having much success. Nathaniel smiled at her and said something, gesturing broadly with the arrow in his hand, then fired it in a high arc. Bethany threw a small fireball into the arrow's path; it passed through and ignited, though the angle meant it landed well in front of the target. Bethany let out a triumphant cry and punched the air, while Nathaniel laughed.

Garrett folded his arms over his chest and frowned. He still didn't quite trust Nathaniel, even though he knew he had nothing logical to base that on. But Bethany seemed to like him. He made her laugh. That... that was something.

He looked away, gritting his teeth against the surge of resentment in his chest. He hated feeling like this, knowing that the twins needed him to be _something_ but with no idea what. Was he supposed to be the teasing father or the supportive mother or the protective big brother? He was the oldest. They were his family, his responsibility, but sometimes he wished he didn't have to carry it all. If only Father and Mother hadn't--

Garrett cut the thought off before it could finish. They hadn't wanted to die. Father hadn't chosen to get sick and Mother hadn't chosen to be attacked by an ogre. He closed his eyes briefly, reburying the memories of her body slamming into the dirt.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Carver sneered from somewhere to Garrett's left.

Garrett opened his eyes and looked up at his brother. “What trivial happening has morally offended you this time?” he drawled.

Carver just nodded in the direction of the archery targets. Garrett glanced over and did a double-take. In the face of their limited success with spontaneous flaming arrows, Bethany and Nathaniel had switched to impromptu archery lessons. Nathaniel stood behind Bethany, arranging her hands on the bow, smiling as he helped her aim.

“Oh,” Garrett said.

“Yeah.” Carver glowered at Nathaniel. Garrett smirked; perhaps since Carver had the protective brother act well in hand, he could settle for merciless teasing.

Bethany drew back the bow and fired. The arrow went about four feet and fell to the ground. She covered her face, laughing, and shook her head. Nathaniel picked up the arrow and handed it back to her, then all but wrapped his arms around her, guiding her through the next shot.

Garrett scowled. This required the full force of two overprotective brothers. Bethany glanced past Nathaniel's arm at them and glared, then looked back at the target. The arrow came somewhat closer to the target on her second shot. She stepped back from Nathaniel and handed him the bow, smiling at him before walking towards Garrett and Carver. Garrett looked away, feigning innocence; Carver had no such self-preservation instincts and continued glowering.

“Stop it,” Bethany hissed as soon as she was within earshot. “I mean it. Both of you.”

“Stop what?” Garrett asked, smirking.

Bethany folded her arms and set her jaw. “This isn't funny, Garrett,” she snapped. “I don't need the two of you trying to set him on fire with your eyes.”

He sighed. “C'mon, Beth, we're your brothers. You'd be hurt if we didn't fly into an overprotective rage.”

“Actually, I wouldn't.”

Carver shook his head. “Howe's not exactly the most trustworthy person, either.”

“What, because of the break-in?” she asked. “He was trying to get his family's things back-- either one of you would have done the same!”

“Beth--”

“No.” She shook her head. “I am not a delicate flower in need of your protection. I'm twenty years old.” Bethany huffed out a breath and looked at her twin. “I don't see you pitching a fit over Garrett and Anders, and _you_ ,” she turned her attention to Garrett, “wouldn't be getting nearly so upset if it were Carver in my place.”

“Oh, who'd be interested in Carver, anyway?” Garrett added with a grin. The punch in the arm from his brother was totally worth it.

Bethany glared at them. “I mean it. Knock it off.” She spun on her heel and marched back towards Nathaniel.

Garrett looked away as the archery lessons resumed. “You know, we've all but ensured that she's going to get involved with him now,” he said with a sigh.

“How?” Carver asked.

“She'll do it to spite us, if nothing else.” Garrett shook his head. “Being contrary's a Hawke family trait.”

Carver snorted. “Can't argue with that.”

“Ironically.” Garrett grinned, and Carver chuckled.

Nathaniel helped Bethany line up another shot; she bit her lip in concentration and let go. It thudded into the target-- not anywhere close to center, but the distance was there. She beamed, clapping her hands together in excitement; Nathaniel smiled at her and handed her another arrow. “I really hope she doesn't turn out to be very good at that,” Carver commented. “The kicking is bad enough, but if she's able to get to us at range...”

Garrett laughed. “Oh, Maker, I didn't even think of that,” he said. “I can at least throw up an arcane shield, but I think you're doomed.”

“Thanks.”

Garrett watched as she fired another shot, this one going wide of the target. “It's probably not a bad idea for her to learn, though,” he said thoughtfully. “We can't always use magic openly. I can hold up well enough with my staff, but she doesn't really have many other options besides fireballs.” If only the lessons came with less touching.

“Seems like everyone will be able to take care of themselves,” Carver said. Garrett glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow. Carver was staring off into the middle distance, arms crossed. “Beth's got her magic and now this, and you _never_ needed me--”

“Carver...” Garrett had a feeling he knew where this conversation was going.

“I was at Ostagar,” Carver snapped. “I fought darkspawn without any _mages_ around to hold my hand. I'd be able to do some good, Garrett--”

“The King's army was too dangerous, but I wasn't the one making the decision back then,” Garrett muttered.

Carver looked back at him, jaw clenched, blue eyes icy with anger. “If Mother let me join the army, why won't you?”

“Because I'm not her,” Garrett ground out. “Because I can't afford to lose the only brother I've got. It's too dangerous, Carver.”

Carver stared at him and shook his head. “I don't need you to protect _me_ , either,” he snapped. “You're going to have to let us live our lives eventually.” He grabbed his sword from beside the bench and stomped off, heading for the practice dummies.

Garrett let out a frustrated growl. “I can't lose you, too,” he muttered. With a sigh, he started to stand, planning on heading to the infirmary-- then he remembered that Anders was gone, and would be gone for some time, and dropped back onto the bench. “Dammit.” With any luck, they'd be back in the next day or two; Surana had said they'd likely be gone about a week.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. The longer they were gone, the more he found himself worrying. Hunting darkspawn wasn't exactly a safe occupation. Garrett frowned, toeing the dirt in front of him. Maker, he hoped Anders was all right.

*

Anders was not all right.

He'd thought the Deep Roads under the Keep had been bad, but this-- this was an entirely new type of agony. They'd been underground for days, no fresh air or breezes or light beyond magic and torches. There were darkspawn everywhere and meat growing off the walls and they kept camping in small caves. He knew it made sense, they were defensible and kept everyone close by, but he couldn't sleep. It wasn't like his cell but it was close enough, and between fighting off a growing sense of panic and the constant buzzing of the taint in his blood, it was a wonder he hadn't gone mad yet.

Kal'Hirol wasn't just a fortress; it was a city, an ancient, abandoned dwarven city, every inch crawling with darkspawn. It was slow going, because Neria insisted on doing a street-by-street sweep, same as any invading army. The darkspawn, she argued, would hole up wherever it suited them, not like mortal armies that would just claim the old seat of power. They'd been in the thaig for days, and Neria had no idea when they'd be leaving. 'Soon,' she'd promised, looking regretful, the last time he asked. 'Just another few days.'

That had been two days ago. His normal coping mechanisms-- rambling to anyone in earshot, singing made-up songs-- had earned death threats from his companions after the first few hours. So he walked in silence, hands clenched tight around his staff, too exhausted to maintain a state of near-panic. He recognized the numbness settling over him; it had come after his first few weeks in solitary and then lingered, clinging to him for months after his release.

He didn't want to live through that again.

Anders exhaled slowly and hummed to himself under his breath. “...shooting of lightning and girls who are smitten,” he sang, too quietly for anyone else to hear. “Lovely tall staves and fire to fling, these are a few of my...”

“Darkspawn,” Neria snapped.

Of course. Anders shook his head and followed the others down the stairs, Justice and Sigrun and Neria leading the charge against the darkspawn. He and Velanna hung back, her lobbing fireballs and him trying to make sure no one on their side collapsed. There weren't many of the creatures, just a small scouting party of hurlocks. Not even an emissary among them.

Neria heaved a sigh and shook her head. “We need to find a place to camp,” she said.

“It doesn't look so bad up ahead,” Sigrun reported. “Less meaty, anyway. I think we might be getting into the fortress proper.”

“Is less meaty good or bad, I wonder,” Neria murmured.

“I'd find it preferable,” Velanna said, inching away from the nearby pustule of flesh.

Neria gave her a tired smile. “But if it means we're getting farther from the darkspawn...” She nodded at the next staircase. “Let's find somewhere to bunker down for the night.” She frowned. “At least, I assume it's night. Maker only knows what time it is.”

She led them down into the fortress, where there was less meat on the walls but more roaming ghosts. Anders shivered, giving the apparitions a wide berth, only half-listening as they made heroic speeches about defense and honor and holding the line. Clearly that hadn't worked out so well, seeing as they were all bloody _ghosts_ .

“Here.” Neria shouldered open a door and peered into the darkness beyond. Anders swallowed hard. “This should work.”

She summoned a fistful of flame and stepped inside, gesturing for the others to follow. Anders looked at the ground beneath his feet and forced himself to walk forward, to keep breathing, to ignore the way his heart sped up and the cold sweat on the back of his neck. He immediately headed to the corner closest to the door and sat down, concentrating on breathing. Pounce crawled out of his pack and sniffed at the ground. Anders scooped up the kitten and hugged him to his chest.

Neria did a quick headcount, then nodded and pulled the door shut. The heavy stone slammed against the frame, echoing in the small space. Anders shuddered and closed his eyes. Breathing. He could do that. There was air, there had to be enough air, the dwarves wouldn't have built rooms without ventilation, right? And there were people and lights and it was nothing like his cell.

He opened his eyes. Neria had wedged a torch into a crack near the door, casting the room into patches of flickering orange light and empty black shadows. Anders inched closer to the light. Pounce yowled in warning, and he loosened his grip on the cat. Maker, but he needed to sleep. Six nights they'd been underground and he'd barely slept.

At least this time there weren't demons coming through the walls.

Anders giggled. There was an edge of hysteria to his voice, and he swallowed hard, pressing a fist to his lips to muffle the sound. Pounce put his paws on Anders's shoulder and nuzzled his chin. “Good kitty,” Anders murmured. “Good, good boy...”

“Anders?”

He started and looked up at Neria. She knelt in front of him, brow creased in worry. “Are you-- you're not all right, are you,” she stated, voice low. Sigrun and Velanna busied themselves with finding rations, while Justice stared at the door, occasionally remembering to blink.

Anders looked back at her and shrugged. “Be fine,” he said, voice choked. He cleared his throat. “Really.”

She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “I'm so sorry,” she murmured. “I should never have brought you down here.”

He shook his head. “You need a healer,” he whispered. He'd saved all of their lives at least once since coming underground-- well, all except Justice, whose body didn't have a life to save. There had been ogres and childer and emissaries and giant spiders... they needed a healer. They needed him to stay on the right side of sane until they got back out into the fresh air and sunshine.

Neria sat down beside him and wrapped her arms around one of his, her head pressed against his shoulder. She was too short to give him a proper hug from this angle, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless. “I know this is very unprofessional,” Anders began, dragging a sweaty palm across the skirt of his robes, “and that you're my commander and all that...”

“Anders.” She squeezed his arm and looked up at him with a small smile.

He sighed. “Can you stay here 'til I fall asleep?”

Neria squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip, suddenly looking very young. Then she nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder again. Anders swallowed hard and rested his cheek against the top of her head. Just a few hours of sleep. That was all he needed.

 _9 Solace 9:32 Dragon_

As he stumbled to his feet, head aching and arms sticky with blood, Anders decided that he really, really hated it when other people were right. Any time someone besides himself made a prediction, it turned out to be both correct and terrible. The darkspawn were indeed breeding an army, the broodmothers were every bit as horrible as Neria had promised, and now he left was struggling to keep everyone alive long enough to destroy the tentacled monstrosities.

The broodmothers, despite being in a cavern far below them, kept sending tentacles burrowing up through the stone to beat them senseless. Neria and Justice were further into the room, hacking at the chains that held a massive chunk of lyrium-encrusted rock suspended over the breeding pit. Anders and Velanna blasted the tentacles with ice and fire, respectively, and Sigrun spun around them, trying to hack off chunks where she could.

Sigrun yelped, almost in surprise more than pain, as one of the tentacles caught her square in the chest and hurled her across the room. She slumped to the ground, stunned. Anders cursed under his breath and ran towards her.

A tentacle erupted from the stone in front of him. Anders staggered back a step; the tentacle whipped towards him, the end of it lashing across his side. There was a feeling of pressure and pricking, then a horrible ripping sound as it tore away fabric and flesh. He screamed, clutching at the gaping wound. His nails clicked off something hard amid all the blood and exposed muscle.

There were many things that Anders believed a man should not have to experience in his life, and touching his own skeleton was relatively high on the list.

He poured healing energy into the wound on instinct, the burn of magic almost a relief after the agony of having a chunk ripped out of his side. Anders ground his teeth and grabbed his staff, the wood slipping a bit in his blood-slicked hands, and limped towards Sigrun.

“There!” Neria shouted. There was a horrible creaking, cracking sound, then the lyrium stone went crashing down into the pit. Anders threw up an arm to shield his eyes from the blue-white burst of light. Then everything was utterly still.

Anders collapsed onto the nearest stone, legs shaking. “We are victorious,” Justice intoned as he approached. Velanna limped towards them, leaning heavily on her staff, while Neria headed towards Sigrun.

With trembling hands, Anders pulled his pack off his back, dreading what he'd find inside. He never should have brought Pounce with him, should have left him in the Keep-- having something warm and friendly to hold onto in the dark wasn't worth his life--

A pair of enormous, terrified green eyes stared up at him from within his pack. Pounce's claws were embedded in the leather, his fur standing on end, but he was okay. Anders let out a relieved sigh. “Hey there,” he said softly. “You hurt?” Pounce just blinked. “I'm sorry,” he said. “You don't ever have to leave the Keep again if you don't want to.”

“Anders!” Neria shouted, voice hoarse. “Sigrun's hurt. Bad.”

“Aren't we all,” he muttered and hauled himself to his feet, pack in one hand, staff in the other. He limped towards them and knelt down, breathing hard, the wound in his side still throbbing. He pressed a hand to Sigrun's neck, searching for a pulse. It took far too long to find it, weak and fluttery and fading. “Dammit,” he muttered.

Before he could start casting, something soft slid along his arm. “What--” Neria began as Pounce crawled up Sigrun's chest and headbutted her chin. Anders felt _something_ ripple along the cat's body, the Fade twisting with some kind of magic, and Sigrun opened her eyes.

“Hey, Ser Pounce-a-Lot,” she said weakly. Anders and Neria gaped at each other, then stared at Pounce. The cat just nuzzled at Sigrun's face again and began to purr.

“What...?” Neria said again, eyes wide. Anders just opened and closed his mouth a few times in wordless shock. Under his fingers, Sigrun's pulse was steady and strong.

His cat had healed her. That was the only thing that made sense, except for the part where it made no sense.

Anders shook his head and wiped his hands off on his robes-- they were a lost cause, anyhow-- and rubbed his thumb against the top of Pounce's head. “Who's the pretty kitty?” he murmured. Pounce just looked up at him and meowed.

Sigrun groaned and sat up; Pounce hopped onto Anders's leg and climbed up to his shoulder. Neria shook her head to clear it and helped Sigrun to her feet. “We did it,” Sigrun said, a bit winded. “If the rest of the Legion were alive, I know... I know they would honor you in some way.”

“I'm sorry you lost so many,” Neria said.

Sigrun's lips quirked up in a sad smile. “I used to wish I could get away from the others. Now I'm all alone, and I just want them back. Silly, isn't it.” She sighed. “Thank you for your help. I never would have been able to do this alone. Now my comrades are avenged... and I can return to the Deep Roads, never to be seen again.”

She sounded oddly cheerful about the prospect. Anders slowly stood, hissing in pain, and sent a general burst of healing energy through their small group. Neria flashed him a quick smile before looking back to Sigrun. “Would you consider coming with us?” she asked.

The dwarf blinked in confusion. “Go... with you?” she asked. “But-- that would go against my vows. And my plan to disappear into the deep, unmourned and forgotten.” Pounce yowled suddenly at that, his claws digging into Anders's shoulder.

Neria shrugged. “Would becoming a Grey Warden go against those vows?”

Sigrun chewed her lower lip. “Be a Grey Warden? Is that allowed? To be a Warden and a member of the Legion?”

“Their goals do seem to overlap somewhat,” Anders offered. “Still fight the darkspawn, court death doing so...”

She brightened. “And I'd be more effective at fighting them, wouldn't I? Ha! How does one say no to that?”

Neria chuckled weakly. “I'd think most people would, after going through all this.”

“Most people aren't already dead and sworn to battle the darkspawn to their last breath,” Sigrun replied with a smile. “Lead on!”

 _11 Solace 9:32 Dragon_

Despite the fact that he deeply, deeply wanted to, Anders held himself back from hugging every soldier, tree, and wall they passed in Vigil's Keep. He couldn't keep from grinning as they limped through the gates, though.

At least he didn't have to deal with Sigrun's unending questions and commentary on the trip back. Neria had held up pretty well under the onslaught, but it did make Anders glad that he wasn't the one in charge. “Get out of here, all of you,” Neria ordered as they entered the fortress. “Sigrun, I'll have the seneschal find you a room. We'll see to your Joining tomorrow.”

“Why wait?” Sigrun asked brightly.

Neria swallowed hard and shook her head. “No need to rush it,” she said with a tense smile. “Come on. Let's find Varel, he can give you the abbreviated tour.”

Anders broke away from the others and took the familiar route through the halls, cutting across the throne room to get to Garrett's office. He hoped the man was actually there today, because going through his siblings to get to him would just be awkward. He'd do it, if he had to, but avoiding their questions and judgment was preferable. The door was open a crack, and Anders eased his pack to the ground as he peered in-- then shoved the door wide and stepped inside.

Garrett glanced up and blinked, then smiled in relief. “You're back,” he said as Anders crossed the room. “What happened--”

Anders swallowed the rest of his words, crushing their mouths together with a needy groan, his fingers digging into Garrett's shoulders. Garrett made a startled noise, but caught up quick enough, settling his hands on Anders's waist. “Hi,” he breathed when they finally parted.

“Hi,” Anders said, managing a shaky smile.

“Missed me?” Garrett asked, eyes sparkling.

He had, actually, missed him quite a lot, and for more than just the obvious reasons. It was unsettling, to say the least. “Are you kidding me?” Anders said. “I haven't gotten laid in eleven days. Damn right I missed you.”

Some unidentifiable emotion flashed across the other man's face, too quick for Anders to name. “We'll make up for it tonight,” Garrett said. “After you take a bath. You smell like rotting meat and darkspawn.” He paused for a second, then looked up at Anders. “Did you come straight here?”

He shrugged. “Eleven days,” he replied, forcing himself to maintain the grin. “My room?”

“I'll be there.”

Simple words, and they didn't mean anything, not really, but it eased the tension in his chest. It might be another night in a small, dark room, but at least he wouldn't be alone.

*

 _15 Solace 9:32 Dragon_

Walking from Vigil's Keep to Amaranthine wasn't exactly a pleasant trip throughout most of the year, but in the scorching heat of mid-summer, it felt especially brutal. Garrett squinted up at the sun, blinding and almost directly overhead, and sighed. Around him, the rest of their group talked and laughed; Bethany and Surana were sending bursts of ice into the air, watching them melt before hitting the ground, while Carver strolled along beside Nathaniel, engaged in what appeared to be civil conversation rather than terse threats. Garrett made a mental note to have words with his brother about fraternizing with the enemy later. Sigrun and Anders were walking side-by-side; Anders had Pounce draped across his shoulders, and he laughed at something the dwarf said. Garrett hadn't spent much time with Sigrun yet, but he tentatively liked her. Her good cheer was infectious, if nothing else. Justice walked a few steps behind them, eyes narrowed in concentration as he listened in on the conversation.

Anders glanced up and met Garrett's eyes. He winked at him; Garrett smiled back and turned away, kicking at a pebble in the dirt. It would be good to get back to the city for a day or two, unholy heat aside. There were contacts he needed to meet with in-person, and it had been ages since he'd seen Aveline. Hopefully her schedule would be free enough that he could steal her away for dinner.

Cold burst in the center of his chest, followed by loud giggling. Garrett raised his head to see Surana and Bethany snickering at him, their hands covered in ice. He prodded at the wet circle in the middle of his shirt and shrugged. “I'd probably be more annoyed if it weren't so blighted hot,” he said as Bethany bounded over to him.

“Don't say I never do anything for you,” she chirped. She elbowed him in the side and beamed up at him. “You two are cute.”

Garrett glanced from side to side. “Me and my shadow? Thanks, sister.”

“You and Anders,” she corrected. “Don't think I don't see the two of you making eyes at each other.”

“It's not exactly a secret,” he commented.

“What's not a secret?” Anders asked, appearing on his other side. Garrett raised an eyebrow at him, and he grinned. “Sigrun's teaching Justice about slight of hand. I was sent away because I have too many tells.”

“Slight of hand?” Bethany repeated.

“She's pickpocketing him, and I giggle too much when I'm in on a secret.” Anders shrugged. “And I'm apparently not in on one over here.”

“Oh, you're in on it,” Garrett said with a grin. He stopped walking and grabbed Anders's arm, pulling the other man around to face him, then leaned in and kissed him. He could hear Bethany giggling again, and Carver groaning in disgust somewhere up ahead. Anders looked startled when he pulled back, eyes wide as he glanced from side to side. He let out a weak chuckle and looked away. Garrett felt his smile fade a bit as he started walking again.

“Cute,” Bethany stated, falling in step beside him. “Aw, you made him all flustered!”

“I can _hear_ you,” Anders grumbled. He rubbed the back of his head, and Garrett was pretty sure the man was blushing. Of all the things to actually make him uncomfortable...

“Leave us alone, Beth,” Garrett said.

She smiled up at him, eyes wide with false innocence, and Garrett had the sudden feeling that he'd stepped into a trap. “Only if you leave me and Nathaniel alone,” she replied sweetly.

Garrett sputtered. “There's a 'you and Nathaniel'?” he demanded.

“Not _yet._ ” She glanced past him to the other side of the road. “Carver seems to like him.”

“Traitor,” Garrett muttered. “And if you really think I'm dropping it--”

“For the day, big brother,” she assured him. “I don't want you to explode because I forced you to contain all your foolish overprotective urges. You leave me alone about him today, I'll leave you alone.”

He sighed. “I never should have let you come to all those meetings,” he muttered. “You learn entirely too well. Fine. Now go away.”

Bethany grinned at him and all but skipped away to join Carver and Nathaniel. Nathaniel smiled as she approached; Garrett exhaled slowly and looked away.

“Are all little sisters like that?” Anders asked.

“I have no idea,” Garrett replied. “I've only got the one.”

“Thank the Maker,” Anders murmured. “I'm not sure the world could handle any more secret, deeply buried evil.”

Garrett laughed and bumped their shoulders together. “She's not that bad.”

“Says you,” Anders replied with a wry grin. “You've had twenty years to get used to it. Interacting with younger siblings has a bit of a learning curve.”

“Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

Anders shook his head. “None that I know of,” he replied. “Oh, look, we're here.”

Garrett glanced up. The city was still another hill away, but Anders could be maddeningly evasive when he wanted to be. They walked in companionable silence to the city gates, at which point Surana herded them all together and climbed up on a box to see over their heads. Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Take care of whatever business you have here,” she began. “We'll have rooms at the inn in the merchant quarter. Oh, and try not to get killed.”

Anders snorted and shook his head as Surana hopped to the ground and their little group began to drift apart. “Where're you off to?” he asked.

“Shady places to talk to shady people,” Garrett replied.

“Fun,” Anders said in a tone that suggested the opposite. “I'll see you tonight.”

He wandered off after Surana, who'd grabbed Justice and headed for the steps to the market. Garrett sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. There were a lot of people he needed to visit today. He wasn't quite sure where to begin.

Carver and Bethany appeared in front of him, wearing matching smiles. “Hi, big brother,” Bethany said.

Garrett rolled his eyes and dug into his coin pouch. “Here,” he said, dumping gold into their hands. “I'll spare us all the indignity of you begging. Come find me at the inn around sundown, we might be having dinner with Aveline tonight.”

“Okay!” Bethany said, then grabbed her twin's arm and dragged him off. Garrett smirked. At least he wasn't the one who'd have to carry Bethany's bags.

“Right,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, and set off for the nobles' quarter. First things first.

Hours later, Garrett wandered up from the market, coin pouch considerably lighter, with scraps of paper replacing gold. Well-worth the exchange, though: he had the names of four nobles who sympathized with Esmerelle, the location of the latest Carta hideout, and rumors about a cabal of blood mages, not to mention all sorts of more mundane gossip about which noble's son was sleeping with which charming milkmaid. He'd also run across Aveline, who was out on patrol and wouldn't be able to join them for dinner that evening. 'Long shifts,' she'd reported, eyes shadowed. 'We're stretched bloody thin. Between the darkspawn and the war, there's no one left for us to recruit.'

She'd likely be available the following evening, though, and Garrett made a note to tell Surana he'd be staying in the city a few extra days when he saw her next. He exhaled heavily and looked around, hands on his hips. He could head up to the Crown and Lion, check in with his contacts there, or... He looked up towards the chantry. With a sigh, he started towards it, adjusting the staff on his back as he approached the door.

The inside of the chantry was quiet and thick with the smell of incense. Garrett shifted his shoulders uncomfortably and walked down the side aisle, footsteps muffled by the worn rugs. He'd only been in here a few times in the past two years, usually at Beth's insistence. The small side chamber was empty, thankfully, though plenty of the memorial candles had already been lit. Garrett sighed quietly as he lit two of the candles, side-by-side. He wasn't especially devout, but it was close to Mother's birthday, and he knew she'd have appreciated the gesture.

“I miss you,” he said quietly. “I miss you both. I—I think I'm taking care of Beth and Carver well enough. As best I can.” He swallowed hard. “I hope we make you proud.”

With a sigh, he pushed away from the altar and headed for the doors. Time for the Crown and Lion. He needed a stiff drink before he got back to work.

It was close to sundown by the time he'd finished making the rounds in the tavern. More gossip and payments to his contacts in the area. He'd just settled his tab with Garrif and was about to leave for the inn when the door slammed open and Surana stormed in. “Good, you're here,” she said, marching towards him. “Upstairs. Now.”

He blinked. Justice, Nathaniel, and Anders trailed after her; Anders was white as a sheet, one arm wrapped around his stomach, and he kept glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. Garrett looked back at Surana. “What--”

“Hawke. _Now._ ”

Garrif was holding out a key already when he turned back. Garrett nodded his thanks and led them up the stairs, holding open the door for everyone when they got to the room.

Anders sank down on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. Garrett locked the door and looked around at the others. “What happened?”

Surana sighed. “We did the one thing that apostates should never, ever do,” she said.

Garrett swallowed hard, an icy chill running down his spine. “Which is?”

“Killed Templars.” Anders's voice was muffled and a little shaky.

Garrett closed his eyes and took three slow, careful breaths. “Start from the beginning,” he said and opened his eyes.

“Anders?” Surana asked. He just waved a hand at her. She nodded. “Anders had a... a friend here who was looking into the Fereldan Circle's phylacteries. Supposedly they moved them here during the blight for safe-keeping. His friend said that they were here, in a warehouse in the market district. We went to check it out.”

“And it was a trap,” Garrett concluded.

“Quite,” Nathaniel agreed.

Surana nodded. “Set by the same Templar who tried to arrest Anders when I conscripted him,” she said. “Apparently she felt that her orders outranked both the arlessa and the queen. She told me to hand him over, I refused, she attacked. And now she and her two associates are dead.”

Garrett leaned back against the wall. “What was she trying to arrest him for?”

“Murder,” Surana replied. Garrett arched an eyebrow. “Yes, my thoughts exactly,” she said. “The Templars who were escorting him back to the Circle died when the darkspawn attacked the Keep. But of course those fine soldiers of the Maker couldn't have been taken down by mere darkspawn. It had to be the work of a maleficar.”

Anders flinched. Garrett did a double-take. “They think you're a killer and a blood mage,” he stated.

“I've always tried to develop a memorable reputation,” Anders muttered. He straightened up, still pale, eyes wide and fingers twitching against his legs.

“All right.” Garrett paused, his mind racing, trying desperately to figure out how to fix this. “How long ago was this?”

“Less than an hour,” Surana said. “Closer to thirty minutes now.”

“And what did you do with the bodies?”

“Moved them to the back room,” Nathaniel said. “And before you ask, they'd arrived before us.”

Garrett nodded. Nathaniel was clearly working through similar plans. “Good,” he said. “Who saw you go in?”

“It was right off the markets,” Surana said. “Anyone could have seen us. We do sort of stand out.”

Garrett frowned. The dead Templars couldn't be connected back to Surana-- her position in the arling was tenuous enough as it was. Harboring an accused murderer and killing some of his accusers, then claiming Warden privilege, would just confirm many of the worst fears about her. Aveline's words about Wardens being above the law echoed through his mind. “You can't be connected to it,” he said. “We'll have to pin the killings on someone else.”

“You cannot!” Justice said, abruptly joining the conversation. “They were in the wrong, but allowing others to take the blame for your actions is unjust.”

Anders hunched his shoulders a bit, and Garrett resisted the urge to join him on the bed and wrap his arms around him. “And what would _you_ have us do?” Garrett sneered.

“Report their actions to the proper authorities,” Justice replied. “If their accusations against Anders are false, then they were in the wrong, and you would be cleared of all guilt.”

“The 'proper authorities' would have us all executed for killing Templars,” Garrett snapped. “That's enough of a crime for them.” He blew out a breath. “Commander, I recommend returning to the Keep with everyone. Except Nathaniel,” he nodded at the archer, “if that's all right.” Nathaniel inclined his head towards him in agreement. “We'll deal with the bodies and the warehouse,” Garrett continued.

Surana nodded. “Sounds good,” she said, walking towards him. “I'll make sure your siblings get back safely.” She pressed something heavy into Garrett's hand. “I trust you to do what's best.”

Garrett glanced down at the leather coin purse in his hand. “Thank you.”

“Let's round up the others,” she said, gently pulling Anders to his feet. He stared at the floor and followed her and Justice out into the hall.

Garrett and Nathaniel looked at each other. “You have a plan?” Nathaniel asked.

“The vague beginnings of one,” he said. “Lyrium smuggling gone bad?”

Nathaniel snorted. “I don't think Surana intended for you to spend all of her coin.”

“She wouldn't have given it to me, otherwise,” Garrett said. “Let's take a look at this warehouse.”

“Not going to threaten me with interrogations about my intentions towards your sister?” Nathaniel asked dryly as they headed for the door.

“When we're not trying to save a friend from hanging? Sure.”

*

“Here,” Anders said, passing another book to Justice. “That'll cover the history of the Circles, more or less.”

Justice frowned at the trio of books in his arms. “I cannot understand why mortals would treat each other this way,” he said. “This Chantry imprisons an entire group simply because some of them may pose a danger?”

Anders sighed. “That's the long and short of it,” he said. He and Neria had spent the ride back to the Keep explaining the Chantry and the Circles to Justice. The spirit had grown increasingly outraged, which was oddly gratifying. Knowing that an embodiment of justice found his circumstances and treatment reprehensible did make him feel warm and fuzzy, when he wasn't panicking about Templars kicking in the door and dragging him away.

“You struggle against your oppression, do you not?” Justice asked.

“I avoid my oppression,” Anders replied. “That's not quite the same thing, is it?”

Justice frowned. “Why do you not strike a blow against your oppressors? Ensure they can do this to no one else?”

Anders snorted. “Because it sounds difficult?” Fighting against the Templars accomplished exactly one thing: attracting their attention. Attention that meant manacles and beatings and solitary-- he tensed to keep from shivering, jaw clenched and hands fisted at his sides.

“Apathy is a weakness,” Justice intoned.

“So's death. I'm just saying.” He nodded at the books. “Have fun with those.”

“I do not believe that reading about the systemic oppression of your people will be enjoyable.”

Anders sighed. “Good night, Justice.” He left before the spirit could attempt to guilt-trip him further. He didn't need the spirit explaining the injustice of it all to him; he'd lived it for half his life. And fighting against them was pointless. The best he could hope for was to keep his head down and do what he could to make this particular stretch of freedom last as long as he could.

Killing Templars wasn't a good way to do that.

He shut the door to the infirmary behind him and felt his way across the darkened room to his desk. A small bolt of electricity lit the lamp, filling the room with a warm glow. Pounce stood up off the desk and rubbed along his arm. Anders chuckled faintly. “I thought I left you in my room,” he murmured, stroking the cat's back. “You're learning your way around, I see.” Pounce nuzzled at his belt. “Well, just don't get stepped on. Or eaten by someone's dog.”

Pounce meowed as Anders scooped him up. He cradled the cat against his chest with one arm, carrying the lamp in the other, and crossed the room to his workbench. Pounce wriggled his way free and went to sniff the boxes of plants and herbs, as he always did. Anders set the lamp on one of the shelves and dragged a chair over. “Someday, we're going to have to talk about your little stunt in the Deep Roads,” he said as he sat down. “None of the books I've checked have anything about cats suddenly being able to heal people.” He smirked. “Maybe I could write an article like Irving was always nagging me to. _On the Healing Properties of Felines_ or something.”

The cat just hopped onto the top shelf and laid down, tail swishing over the edge. Anders scooted the lamp farther away, then grabbed his mortar and pestle and the box of dried elfroot. Maker knew he wasn't going to be sleeping tonight. Might as well get something productive done.

He'd finished restocking his supplies of health and rejuvenation potions and had moved onto tearing bandages for poultices when the door opened. Anders glanced up as Garrett slipped inside and quietly shut the door behind him. “Hey,” Garrett murmured as he walked over.

“Hey.” Anders looked up at him. “How'd you know I was in here?”

“Saw the light from outside.” Garrett placed his hand on the back of Anders's neck, gently kneading at the muscles. Anders's eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “You okay?” Garrett asked.

The words 'of course, I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?' died on his tongue. Anders sighed and leaned his head against Garrett's hip. “I don't know,” he murmured. “I-- That was always my one rule when I ran. Never kill a Templar. As soon as they had me cornered, I gave up, because if I'd _killed_ one of them... Maker, they'd never have let me out of there.” Thrown him in a cell and left him to rot. Execution, if they were feeling merciful, but a mage who dared kill a Templar rarely earned mercy.

And today he'd helped kill three. Anders squeezed his eyes shut and turned away from his workbench, pressing his face against Garrett's side.

“They won't be able to trace it back to you,” Garrett said.

Anders snorted. “I'm glad you have such a high estimation of your skills.”

“Someone has to,” Garrett replied with a touch of his normal humor. He brushed his thumb along the side of Anders's neck. “You're a Warden. They can't touch you.”

“Unless the Chantry decides mages in the Wardens are apostates, too.” He sort of wanted to wrap his arms around Garrett's waist, but he couldn't get them to move. Too tired, maybe.

Garrett sighed. “It'll be all right.”

Anders let out a frustrated breath. Garrett didn't understand-- he'd spent his life hiding from the Templars, but that was different than running, being caught, being dragged back behind cold stone walls without sunshine or rain... “They're never going to stop coming for me,” Anders said. “They're never going to just give up and say yes, all right, this mage can be free. It's doesn't _work_ that way. They're never going to stop.”

Garrett murmured something, too quiet for him to hear. Before he could ask for clarification, Garrett shifted away and sank down to his knees, putting them at eye-level. Anders blinked at him and swallowed hard against the fluttery, twisting feeling in his chest, the same thing he'd felt when Garrett had kissed him on the road to Amaranthine. Garrett's hand was still on his neck, and he pulled Anders's head towards him a bit. “It doesn't matter if they keep coming,” he said. “We're not going to let them take you.”

Anders almost shivered when he met Garrett's eyes. There was something oddly familiar about the intensity of his gaze, something open and honest that made him want to believe him. And that was a danger in and of itself, believing that he might be safe. He knew better. He might be _safer_ here, but he was never safe. Not really. Anders looked away, leaning back enough that Garrett's hand fell from his neck. “What time is it?” he asked.

Garrett sighed. “Late.” He tilted his head towards the door. “Bed?”

“Yeah.” He glanced back at Garrett as the other man stood. Karl, he realized belatedly. Karl used to look at him like that, sometimes. Anders shook his head and got to his feet, then picked up Pounce and extinguished the lamp with a flicker of ice magic. Garrett held the door open for him, and they walked up to his room in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to runsinthefamily for the song that Anders sings to himself in the Deep Roads. The full, heartbreaking version, sung to the tune of "My Favorite Things:"
> 
> Feathers on mage robes and whiskers on kittens  
> The shooting of lightning and girls who are smitten  
> Lovely tall staves and fire to fling  
> These are a few of my favorite things   
> When armor clanks  
> When Silence clings  
> When I’m feeling sad  
> I simply remember my favorite things  
> And then I don’t feel so bad


	6. Chapter Five

_20 Solace 9:32 Dragon_

“Garrett Hawke.”

While Garrett’s own network of agents, contacts, and informants was pretty impressive, there was nothing in Ferelden that could rival Aveline's ability to track him down when she was angry.

“Thank you for your time,” Garrett said quickly, passing a few silver to the elven servant. “Please let me know if you hear anything else.”

She nodded and pocketed the coin, then slipped away, clearly intent on avoiding the guard's wrath. Garrett plastered on a winning smile and turned to face her. “Aveline.”

“What did you _do_?” she hissed, grabbing his arm and dragging him into a nearby alley.

“Oh, Aveline, we mustn't, not here,” he deadpanned. “Someone might hear our impassioned cries--”

“Stop it, Hawke,” she snapped. “Dead Templars?”

He quickly sorted through a number of responses-- denial, confusion, paralysis spell-- before grinning sheepishly and shrugging. “I guess that saves me the trouble of having to explain it,” he said. Honesty was generally the best tactic with her. Aveline could always tell when he was lying.

“Oh, no, you still have some explaining to do,” she said. “Like how you're involved in it.”

“I didn't kill them,” he said, holding up his hands. “I swear.” Aveline scowled at him; he shook his head. “Number one rule of apostasy: don't kill Templars. Well, actually, rule number one is 'don't attract Templar attention,' but killing Templars is really the best way to do that, so we don't. Kill them. Generally speaking.”

“Hawke.” Aveline glanced at the entrance to the alley.

He sighed. “What've _you_ heard?”

“Next to nothing,” she replied. “Someone complained about the smell and we found three corpses. Mother Eleanor identified them as Templars sent by the Grand Cleric in Denerim to investigate murder charges being leveled against a wanted maleficar.”

Garrett wondered if Anders would be flattered or terrified to know that the Grand Cleric had taken an interest in him. Terrified, most likely, though he'd _act_ flattered. He sighed. “He's not a blood mage,” he said. “Or a murderer.”

“Is this your Anders that I've heard about?” Aveline asked. Garrett raised his eyebrows at her. “I ran into Bethany when you lot were in town last week-- at the exact same time the Templars were killed.”

He sighed. “Aveline--”

“The arlessa's involved somehow, Hawke, I know that much,” she said. “Half the merchants on the south end of the market saw her go into the warehouse. And almost as many remember seeing three Templars go in less than a quarter of an hour before that. You work for her. She must have told you what happened.”

Garrett looked away. “I can't talk about it.” Aveline snorted in disgust. “I'm sorry, Aveline, I really am.”

She shook her head. “Doesn't matter, anyway,” she said. “The investigation's out of our hands. The Templars are looking into it themselves.”

“Ah.” It was Garrett's turn to glance at the far end of the alley.

“Look, I don't know what happened in there,” Aveline said. “And I know you might think that all Templars are worthless, but there are good people in the Order. If the arlessa's covering up something... well.” She stepped back and frowned. “I hope your friend is worth it.”

He is, Garrett almost said, swallowing back the words at the last second. “Thanks, Aveline.”

She sighed. “Be careful, Hawke. I have a feeling this is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. If it gets better.”

“You're always such a ray of sunshine in my life,” Garrett replied. Aveline sighed and headed back out to the street. Garrett leaned against the wall and stared up at the buildings overhead. None of that was encouraging news. The Chantry was the one area where he was blind and deaf, more or less. People who sold secrets tended not to be the most loyal, and the price on apostates was pretty tempting these days. It was safer to give them a wide berth.

Except now he desperately needed information about the Templars.

Garrett exhaled heavily and pushed off the wall. Getting at the Templars themselves would be entirely too dangerous. And the lyrium smugglers, who would ordinarily be his next choice, probably wouldn’t be pleased to see him again. He shook his head and left the alley, heading up the stairs to the Crown. It was within sight of the Chantry, and while most Templars were entirely too uptight to do something as common as buy a pint, the ones who _weren't_ might be gossips. He hoped.

It wasn't much to base an investigation on, but he had to start somewhere.

The bar was reasonably quiet, for mid-afternoon, with only a few truly committed drinkers lurking by the taps. Garrett nodded to Garrif and bounded up the stairs, glancing in the rooms with their doors open until he found what he needed. “Good afternoon, Sorcha,” he said with a grin, leaning against the doorframe.

Sorcha looked up from making the bed and smiled. “Ser Hawke!” She gave the blankets a final tug, then came around the bed, brushing her hands off on her skirt. “Good t'see you around again. How's Carver and Bethany these days?”

“Very well,” he said. “Staying out of trouble, for the most part.”

She chuckled. “And I'd guess by _that_ grin you're gettin' into it, hm?” Garrett shrugged one shoulder and gave her a crooked smile. She shook her head. “What d'you need?”

“Any Templars been in lately?” he asked. “In the past, say, three or four days?”

“Hm.” Sorcha drummed her fingers against her leg. “Well, Landon, Ward, and Petra are in here pretty regular. They're a bit younger-- Ward's a newer recruit, I think. They were at their table two nights ago. Drank a lot, more than they usually do. Landon ended up passed out on the table and the other two had to carry him out.” She shook her head.

“Any idea why they were drinking more?”

“No, sorry,” Sorcha said with an apologetic frown. “It was pretty busy—y’know how it gets after sundown. They weren't drinkin’ to celebrate, though. They seemed angry about something. I did hear them talkin’ about smugglers a bit when I brought over a round of drinks. That's all I know, really.”

Garrett nodded. “Have they been back?”

“No, but that's normal. Mostly they're only in once or twice a week.”

“Right.” He chewed on his lower lip, frowning. “Think you could do something for me?” he asked. At Sorcha's nod, he straightened up and took a couple steps into the room. “Next time they're in, see if you can listen to them a bit more. Don't make it obvious and don't do anything that'd get you in trouble with Garrif, but anything you can pick up would help me.”

She smiled. “Of course. Are you in some kinda trouble with them?”

Not yet. “No,” he said. “Just following up on something for the arlessa.”

“Ah.” Sorcha nodded. “I'll do my best, ser.”

“I know you will.” He reached for his coin purse; she held up her hands and shook her head. “Aw, Sorcha, c'mon. I can't leave you excessively large tips in return for your help anymore.”

“You don't have to do that,” she said. “You've got your brother and sister to look after. I've just got me. I don't need it.”

He sighed. “If you insist. Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime, ser.” She smiled and turned towards the fireplace, crouching down to sweep out the grate.

Garrett quietly fished out a few silver and dropped them on the blanket, then dashed out of the room before Sorcha could stop him. He was pretty sure he heard her sigh loudly as he reached the top of the stairs. Garrett smirked and took the steps two at a time, hurrying out of the tavern. There were a few more people he could visit before he had to start the ride back to Vigil's Keep.

*

_25 Solace 9:32 Dragon_

The last time Anders had been in Neria's office, some six weeks ago, it had been fastidiously neat. Full of books and papers and interesting items of arcane power, but neat. Everything in its place. Now, though, Anders thought it looked like a library had vomited all over the room. Well, maybe not a whole library. Perhaps just several of the large atlases that they'd had in the Circle, the ones Anders was convinced the Templars kept around as a sick joke on the mages who could never leave the tower.

“Looking for something?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Neria didn't look up from scribbling down notes. “Darkspawn,” she replied. “I'm looking for darkspawn.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, Nery--”

“Neria.”

“But I don't think their headquarters is going to be marked on a map.”

“No. It's not.” She set her quill aside and finally looked up. “Not until someone marks it on a map for me.”

Anders blinked at her, then groaned as realization set in. “Oh, come on, you can't--”

She pointed at herself, “Warden-Commander,” then at him, “Warden.” She grinned. “I really can.”

He pouted. “You want me to go wandering around the countryside looking for darkspawn?”

“Basically.” She rummaged through a stack of papers and pulled out a map. “You and Sigrun. I already sent Nathaniel and Velanna off to chase down another lead to the southwest.” Neria held out the map.

Anders eyed it reluctantly. “I'm bad at maps. No experience with them.”

“So give it to Sigrun. Or bring someone else.” She smirked. “You can take Hawke. It'll be like a date.”

“Oh, yes, hunting darkspawn is just the epitome of romance,” he drawled and took the map.

She smirked. “It's how I met Zevran.”

“It's not romantic.”

“Go find me a darkspawn lair, Anders.”

Which was how he found himself stomping around in a forest, hunting for darkspawn scout. A waste of a perfectly good summer day, in his opinion. It would have been a much better use of his time to spend it curled up in the library window seat with a good book, or down in the kitchens with a glass of lemonade and a sandwich, or in his bed with Garrett, sprawled out in the sunbeams like a cat.

Anders tried to keep his sulking to a minimum. It could, after all, be worse. He could always be back in Kal'Hirol. Anders frowned and touched a hand to his side. It still ached a bit. The wound hadn't scarred, fortunately, but that hadn't stopped Garrett from worrying over it, tracing his fingers around the edges of the new skin when he thought Anders was asleep.

The path forked ahead of them. Garrett sighed and pulled out the map, frowning at it. “Either of you getting anything?” he asked, glancing at Anders and Sigrun. Anders cocked his head to the side; other than the barely perceptible buzz of Sigrun's presence, there was nothing tainted nearby. The dwarf scrunched up her nose, concentrating, then shook her head. Garrett sighed. “Well. Damn.”

“We should go right,” Carver said.

“Why?”

“It looks like there's caves over there, see?” He pointed at the map.

Garrett raised the map to eye level and squinted at it. “I think that's a waterfall.”

“Right, and caves. Darkspawn live in caves.”

“There are no caves. Where are you seeing caves?”

Anders rolled his eyes at the brothers and adopted a pose of exaggerated impatience: arms folded, fingers drumming on his elbow, foot tapping, and overwrought sighs every thirty seconds or so. Neither of them seemed to notice.

“You can't really be that eager to get going,” Sigrun said. “You don't seem to like hunting darkspawn all that much.”

He shrugged. “It's better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Death by hanging.”

Sigrun winced. “Yeah. I joined the Legion for similar reasons. I'd probably have ended up _really_ dead otherwise.”

Anders smirked. “You wouldn't expect a group called the Legion of the Dead to be saving lives.”

“They do it a lot more than you think.” Sigrun smiled, a bit sadly, and gazed around the clearing. Her eyes lit up abruptly and she pointed at something. “Can you light that bush on fire?” she asked.

Anders looked over at the bush. It looked both unremarkable and inoffensive. “Probably,” he said. “But why would I want to?”

“Could you freeze it?”

“Why do you want me to kill the bush?” he asked, almost laughing.

She grinned. “Because it's there! It's an eeeevil bush!” She made finger-wiggling motions at him. “Do it!”

“Magic is not for your amusement!” he retorted. “Why don't I just do a little dance? Anders's Spicy Shimmy?” He wriggled his hips in a motion that might be called dancing, if one were drunk and feeling generous.

“Oh, ewww.” Sigrun made a face. “I'll pass.”

“And of course _that's_ the moment I'd choose to look up,” Carver grumbled, pressing a hand to his eyes. “Maker help me.”

Garrett snorted and tilted his head towards the left-hand path. “C'mon. Let's go.”

“Can _you_ light a bush on fire?” Sigrun asked, bounding ahead to walk by him.

“No, but I could freeze one.” He shot a burst of ice at a random patch of underbrush; Sigrun clapped in delight, while Anders checked over his shoulder for Templars. One of them could have had a sudden urge to commune with nature and decided to go for a stroll. It _would_ rather be in keeping with his luck.

The path behind them was free of silverite armor and righteous anger, fortunately. He followed after Sigrun and Garrett, the latter of whom seemed more than happy to indulge the dwarf's curiosity about magic. Carver seemed similarly put out by his brother's actions, but then, Garrett's mere existence seemed to annoy Carver sometimes.

“So. Anders,” Carver said, after a few minutes of walking in silence.

Anders looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Yes?”

“That's not your real name, is it?”

Ah, this conversation. Anders was very familiar with this conversation. It had come up plenty of times in the tower, though usually the question was asked by mages five years his junior with delusions of love and devotion. “Of course it is,” he replied with smile. “I'm Anders, there's my brother Nevarran, my little sister Antivan--”

“Very funny,” Carver interrupted, glaring.

“Thank you, I thought so.”

And that was typically the end of it. Carver, however, appeared to be incapable of taking a hint. “It's a nickname, though, right? I mean, you look... Anders, so I figured...”

He sighed. “Yes, it's a nickname, but it's all I've answered to for the past decade, so it may as well be my real name.”

“But what _is_ your real name?” Carver pressed.

“I just told you,” Anders said, a bit testy. Garrett glanced back over his shoulder at the two of them and frowned.

“No, you told me that was a nickname,” Carver said. “What's your _real_ name?”

Anders rolled his eyes. “Philbert Florian McCrazyPants. The Third.” He debated adding an 'esquire' to the end of it, but he'd already stolen from Finn once for that name. Doing it more than that might accidentally summon the man to his side, and he suspected the librarian would probably collapse if exposed to so much _outdoors_ all at once.

“Strangely enough, I don't believe you,” Carver replied.

Anders shrugged. “That's your problem, isn't it?”

“But--”

“Carver, drop it,” Garrett cut in.

Carver almost smirked, redirecting his attention to his brother. “You’re shagging him, do you know what his real name is?”

Garrett stopped walking and spun around. “Carver!”

“Ugh, fine.” He rolled his eyes and stomped past, grumpily taking the lead. Sigrun just raised her eyes, looking a bit bewildered by the whole thing.

Garrett met Anders's eyes and offered an apologetic smile. Anders shrugged and shook his head, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. Garrett glanced up at his brother as he fell in step beside Anders, and the smile shifted into a smirk. “I apologize for my brother, Anders,” he said loudly. “He was dropped on his head as a child. In a barn. Where he was then raised by animals.”

Anders grinned at him. “Oh, I'm sure you can find some way to comfort me,” he said, affecting a wounded tone.

Garrett stopped walking again and grabbed his arm, and what _was_ it with this man and kissing on open roads? It was a little strange. Still, kissing Garrett was always nice, as was Garrett's arm around his waist and his fingers in his hair--

“What're y-- oh, Maker, Garrett!” Carver made a strangled choking noise. Garrett broke off the kiss and started laughing, his arms still around Anders. Anders glanced over at Carver, who had the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes, and snickered.

“If you all don't mind,” Sigrun said, sounding thoroughly annoyed, “we do have darkspawn to hunt.”

“Right.” Garrett released Anders with a wink, his hands lingering a bit, then he turned away and headed back towards the front of their group. Sigrun rolled her eyes and fell in step beside Carver, who was muttering something about the evil ways of mages under his breath. Anders grinned and followed after them.

*

_28 Solace 9:32 Dragon_

There were worse ways to spend a day than lying on a hill beside Nathaniel Howe, hidden in the tall grass, staring at a cave entrance. Garrett was sure of it. Perhaps not more _boring_ ways, but definitely worse. He could be fighting darkspawn. Or Templars. Or dragons. Those would all be worse than this.

With the Wardens mostly focused on the task of tracking down the darkspawn, he'd turned his attention to following up on some of the reports out of Amaranthine. It turned out there was a small group of blood mages operating in the arling, summoning demons and kidnapping people and generally giving all apostates a bad name. They'd be watching the cave for a few hours now, hoping to get an idea of their numbers and power. But so far, nothing.

Nathaniel shifted slightly. “How long do you intend to wait here?” he asked, his voice barely louder than the rustling grass.

Garrett shrugged and flicked his gaze skyward. “Another hour, at least,” he replied.

“And what will we tell the Commander if the blood mages don't appear?” Nathaniel asked.

“That we wasted a day laying in the sunshine,” Garrett muttered, his lips quirking up in a smile. “It could be worse.”

“True.” Nathaniel shrugged. “It could be raining.”

He hadn't even thought of that. Garrett glanced up at the sky again, briefly thankful for the expanse of bright blue and puffy white clouds overhead. “So,” he said, “since we have some time on our hands...”

Nathaniel sighed. “I was wondering when you'd get around to this.”

“She's my little sister,” Garrett said. “You can't tell me you'd be acting any in my place.”

“My younger sister was fourteen when I left,” Nathaniel replied, “and married with a child on the way when I returned. 'Foolishly protective elder brother' wasn't a role I ever got to play.”

For a moment, Garrett felt a bit sorry for Nathaniel. His own parents had sacrificed so much to keep the family together; he couldn't imagine being sent away like that. Taken, certainly. The idea of Templars dragging him or Bethany or Father away had haunted his nightmares for as long as he could remember. He shook his head a bit to clear it and smirked. “It's really quite fun,” he replied. “You get to be a holy terror and no one can fault you for it.”

“Somehow I doubt that last part.” Garrett snorted. “What exactly do you think I'm going to do to Bethany that's so terrible?” Nathaniel continued.

“Break her heart, mostly.”

Nathaniel sighed again. “I think you misunderstand our relationship,” he said, and Garrett fought back the urge to strangle the man at the words 'our relationship.' “I like Bethany. She's a talented, bright, kind woman. But I'm not courting her.”

“Yet.”

“Well.” Garrett could just _hear_ the bastard smirking. “I do like her.”

Garrett exhaled slowly. “Fine,” he said between clenched teeth. “But if you hurt her--”

“You'll slit my throat in my sleep?”

“No, of course not.” Garrett turned to look at the other man and gave him a menacing, toothy smile. “You wouldn't _suffer_ if you died in your sleep.”

“Consider the threat noted.”

“It's not a threat. It's a promise.” Garrett looked back at the cave. Still dark and utterly devoid of maleficar out for a stroll. “She's one of the most important things in the world to me.”

Nathaniel hmphed in acknowledgment. “I shudder to think of what you'd do if someone threatened Anders,” he murmured.

He'd already framed the local Carta for murder to keep the Templars off Anders's back. Garrett frowned slightly. When he put it like that... Anders had somehow moved quite high on his list of priorities. “I look out for the people I care about,” he replied instead.

“As do I,” Nathaniel said.

Garrett huffed out a breath. “For what it's worth,” he muttered, “this isn't anything personal. I'd be threatening pain and torment on anyone who seemed interested in Bethany. Or Carver, truth be told.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “I'm sure they're both _very_ appreciative.”

“Beth's been threatening to set my bed on fire for so long, I barely notice it anymore.”

“Delilah tended to go for water and mud,” Nathaniel said. “Maker, but she was destructive. Probably for the best I left when I did, really. We'd have terrorized each other once she hit fifteen or so.”

Garrett smirked. “How old were you when you went to Kirkwall?”

“Eighteen.”

Garrett blinked at the grass in front of his nose. “And you were in the Marches _how_ long?” he asked, slowly doing the math in his head.

Nathaniel grimaced. “Eight years,” he said. Garrett swore the man was inching away from him.

“You're twenty-six?”

“Twenty-seven in a few months,” Nathaniel replied, then seemed to realize that this wasn't helping his case. “Look--”

Garrett held up a hand to silence him. “Just-- just don't,” he said, glaring at the cave. Maker, he could really use a few depraved blood mages to take out his aggression on right now. “Andraste's blood. Twenty-seven.”

“Should have told you I was thirty-five or something,” Nathaniel muttered. “That would have made my actual age sound much better.”

“Just-- shut up and watch the cave.”

*

_Funalis (Day of the Dead) 9:32 Dragon_

Funalis had never really been celebrated—or honored, Anders supposed, not really a day of _celebration_ —in the Circle. None of the mages knew if their families were alive or dead, and it was against Chantry teachings to pray for most of those who died in the tower. Those who failed their Harrowing and those who took their own lives were already lost to the Maker, their souls condemned to the Void.

But now that he was in a place where most people did seem to mark the holiday, he really didn’t know what to do with himself. Almost everyone in the Keep was at the Chantry service-- even Sigrun had decided to spend the day honoring her fallen comrades. Oghren had looked surlier than usual at breakfast and vanished shortly after, and Anders wasn’t really in the mood to face Justice’s self-righteousness.

So he left Pounce napping on his bed and wandered out to the courtyard. It was quiet outside, since the workers had been given the holiday off. Anders paused by the well, his gaze drifting around the yard, then wandered in the general direction of the Hawke house. Maybe he’d be lucky and Garrett would be there, though he’d settle for spending some time with Bethany, or even—well, no, if Carver was the only one there, he was going back to the Keep. Or he could go down to the village; there were bound to be some merchants passing through who weren't spending the day in prayer. He'd be able to find _someone_ to entertain him, but he'd prefer to see Garrett.

Anders frowned at the dirt. That was sort of the crux of the issue, really. He preferred Garrett in general. He hadn’t bothered to go looking for anyone else since getting back from Kal’Hirol, and it wasn’t just convenience. It was starting to feel like Karl all over again, except outside of the Circle, the boundaries were less clear. There had been lines with Garrett, at one point, but now they were getting a bit muddled. The whole thing had been so much easier when it was just sex.

Speaking of sex... Anders raised an eyebrow at the grunts and heavy breathing coming from behind the Hawkes' house. He rounded the corner and stopped, cocking his head to the side at the sight that greeted him. Garrett was in his leathers, staff in hand, practicing his bizarre fighting style. As Anders watched, Garrett swung his staff in a wide arc in front of him, the blade slicing through invisible opponents, and threw one hand out in an imitation of spellcasting. Anders wondered vaguely who he was fighting-- Templars, darkspawn, every person who'd ever wronged one of his siblings-- then leaned against the wall, waiting to be noticed.

It didn't take long. Garrett stabbed to his left and rolled the staff over his shoulder, then spun around to attack whoever he'd imagined was behind him. He stopped when he spotted Anders, blinking in surprise for a moment before grinning. “Hey,” he said, breathing hard. “Sorry. Didn't see you.”

Anders shrugged. “I was just enjoying the view.”

Garrett laughed and ambled over. “What brings you down here?” he asked, twirling his staff twice before resting the blade against the ground.

“I can't just drop by and see you?” Anders replied with a smirk. Garrett raised his eyebrows, looking faintly surprised. Anders couldn't blame him; 'just dropping by' wasn't something he did. “Everyone's off praying. Thought I'd see if you were around.”

“Ah.” Garrett glanced at the house. “Yeah. Beth and Carver went.”

“Not you?” Anders idly rubbed his fingers against the fence between them.

Garrett shook his head. “I took after Father—never saw much use for a religion that says we’re cursed and evil and all that. Mother had her faith, though, and she passed it on to the twins.” He smiled wryly. “We all still had to go to weekly service, though. I used to entertain myself by imaging how we'd fight our way out if the Templars realized they had three apostates in the pews.”

“I used to fold paper birds with the pages of the Chant,” Anders said. “Or reread the dirty parts fifty times.”

“I... don't recall those parts,” Garrett replied.

Anders smirked. Making the Chant sound sexual was all a matter of emphasis. “‘With passion'd breath comes darkness, but with many against Her, She finds His light untiring as it parts the Veil,'” he recited.

“Kinky.” Garrett chuckled, then glanced back at Anders, frowning a bit. “Why do you have passages of the Chant memorized?”

An unexpected side effect of being locked up with it for a year. Anders shrugged and looked away. “I had to make my own fun,” he replied with false lightness.

Garrett was silent for a few moments, and Anders tried not to obviously hold his breath. Then Garrett tilted his head at the small yard behind him. “Wanna spar?” he offered.

There were plenty of things Anders liked about Garrett-- the way he kissed, that neat trick he did with ice magic, his laugh-- but one of his favorites was the fact that he didn't push. He could tell when Anders didn't want to talk about something and he dropped it. Anders grinned and leaned forward. “Oh, Garrett, you know there's far better ways to get me sweaty and gasping.”

Garrett cast a speculative glance at the Keep. “How much longer do you think the service'll be?”

“Oh, another two hours, at least.”

The other man grinned and tilted his head at the house. “I'll meet you around front.”

“No need for that,” Anders replied and vaulted neatly over the fence.

“Nice,” Garrett said, looking him up and down.

Anders shrugged. “Templars can't jump in all that armor. Getting a few fences between me and them bought me another two days of freedom once.”

Garrett laughed and pushed open the door. He propped his staff up in the corner, then led Anders through the kitchen and down the dark, narrow hall to his room. Anders had a moment to glance around the sparse, clean bedroom before Garrett pounced, pressing him into the wall and crushing their mouths together.

By this time, Garrett was very good at getting Anders out of his robes, but Anders had yet to attempt removing the other man's armor. “This is ridiculous,” he grumbled, fumbling with one of the buckles at Garrett's waist. “And you complained about my clothes being complicated--”

“They _are_ complicated,” Garrett mumbled against his neck. He huffed out a breath and stepped back. “You do yours, I'll do mine.”

Anders pouted. “But I _like_ undressing you.”

“Look, we've only got two hours--”

“I could figure it out in that time,” Anders retorted with a laugh. “It'd probably only take me ninety minutes. At the most.”

Garrett chuckled and pushed lightly at Anders's chest. “Off,” he said, then set about undoing his own armor. Anders undid his belts, yanked his robes off over his head, and stepped out of his boots. Garrett dropped his gauntlets to the floor and rolled his eyes. “Maybe not so complicated.”

“I _told_ you.”

They eventually got Garrett out of his armor, fumbling and laughing between wet, open kisses. Anders tried to push away from the wall; Garrett pushed back, pinning him in place and rocking their hips together. Anders groaned through gritted teeth, digging his nails into Garrett’s shoulder, and shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. “You do not get to fuck me against a wall when there’s a perfectly—hngh—perfectly good bed right there.”

“If you insist.” Garrett smirked and grabbed Anders by the wrist, leading him towards the bed. He fell back onto the mattress and scooted up a little, then held his arms out as Anders climbed up onto him. Anders kissed him hard, raking his hands through Garrett’s hair, and tried to ignore the twisting knots in his stomach. It was too—too _something_ , too close, too intimate, too much. When had this turned into more than just an easy lay?

He let out a low growl and tugged Garrett’s head back to expose his throat. Garrett sighed and arched up against him as Anders sucked at his pulse, skating his hands over Anders’s arms and shoulders and sides. Not his back, though; Garrett always remembered to avoid the scars. Anders clenched his jaw, his face pressed against Garrett’s neck, and shoved everything else back down. He could worry about it all later. Right now he had more important things to concentrate on.

After, they laid together in a sweaty, satisfied tangle, Anders’s head on Garrett’s chest and Garrett’s arms around Anders’s waist. Anders tapped his fingers against Garrett’s shoulder in time to the other man’s pounding heart and debated the relative merits of a nap. On the one hand, the twins would be back soon, and having to do the walk of shame past them would be a bit awkward. On the other hand, he was very warm and comfortable, and he wasn’t quite sure that his legs were working just yet.

“Is this how you typically check someone’s heart rate?” Garrett asked, nuzzling at the top of Anders’s head. “Or am I just special?”

“You’re just special.” The words were out before Anders really thought about it, and he kept talking in the hopes that they wouldn’t sink in. “Usually I check here--” He reached back and grabbed Garrett’s wrist and pressed two fingers to his pulse, counting the beats out of sheer habit, “or here.” He nudged his nose against Garrett’s throat, then raised his head slightly and frowned. “Though given the bruise, I’d probably avoid poking and prodding more than necessary. Want me to take care of that?”

“Nah.” Garrett smirked and tugged Anders back down. “Carver gets all squirmy and awkward when I turn up with bite marks.”

Anders chuckled. “You’re terrible.”

“And sleepy.” Garrett shifted position a bit, settling into the mattress. “G'night.”

“It's barely afternoon,” Anders replied. Garrett faked a loud snore in response. Anders smiled and closed his eyes. Just a short nap, then.

The sound of a door slamming shut woke him. Anders blinked, a bit confused at the location of the windows and the orange, late-afternoon sunlight spilling across the floor, before his brain caught up.

Garrett stirred and attempted to roll over. “Whas-- oh. Hello,” he said, voice raspy.

Anders sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Hi.” Voices echoed down the hall, and he grimaced. “I probably ought to go,” he said.

“You don't have to,” Garrett said, pressing his lips to Anders's shoulder.

“I try to avoid socially awkward situations as much as possible,” Anders replied. “And chatting with your brother and sister mere hours after I've thoroughly debauched you? Awkward.”

Garrett chuckled. “I'd say it was a fairly equal debauching, really,” he said. Anders smirked and swung his legs over the side of the bed, rolling his shoulders before pushing himself to his feet to hunt down his clothes. Garrett followed suit, pulling a clean shirt and pants out of his wardrobe. Anders lingered by the door and watched him get dressed. “Am I holding you up?” Garrett asked as he pulled on his shirt.

“No, no rush,” Anders replied. “But there's no way I'm going out there alone.”

“They're not going to eat you,” Garrett said, nipping at Anders's ear as he pulled the door open. Anders blew a stray hair out of his eyes and followed Garrett into the hall.

Bethany was curled up in the armchair, her legs hugged to her chest and her chin on her knees. “Garrett, there you-- oh.” She blinked at Anders and smiled weakly. “Hello, Anders.”

“Hi.” Anders attempted to sidle towards the door while keeping Garrett between them.

“Anders?” Carver asked from the kitchen. He stomped out into the front room, eyes wide with shock as he looked at his brother. “I can't believe you,” he said, disgusted. “Beth, can--”

“No.” She was on her feet in an instant, hands held before her. “I'm not-- I can't _deal_ with you two being-- not today.” Bethany spun on her heel and dashed down the hall. Anders cringed when the door slammed behind her.

Carver snorted and shook his head. “Very classy of you, brother,” he sneered. “So nice to see you honoring their memory--”

“So I can only remember them on certain days? Is that it?” Garrett stalked forward a few paces and folded his arms over his chest.

Carver glared. “Mother would have--”

“I'll honor them when _I_ need to, not on the Chantry's schedule,” Garrett snapped.

Anders swallowed hard. So much for avoiding anything awkward. “I should go,” he said, gesturing at the door.

“Yeah, you should,” Carver said, without taking his eyes off his brother.

“Carver!” Garrett barked.

“What? He should go,” Carver snarled. “He's not _family._ ”

Garrett went still. Even from a few steps away, Anders could see the tension in his muscles. “I'll see you later, Anders,” he said, voice even and cold and very carefully restrained.

“Yeah.” Anders darted towards the door and slipped out.

As soon as it shut behind him, Garrett exploded. “What in the Void is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me? I'm not the one _fucking_ someone instead of--”

The rest of Carver's suggestion for how Garrett should have been spending his time faded from earshot as Anders hurried back towards the Keep, shoulders hunched. Much as he hated being responsible for causing a fight, part of him was flattered at how quickly Garrett had leapt to his defense. That weird, twisted-in-knots feeling was back, and he sighed. This had all gotten so complicated.

*

_5 August 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett jolted awake at the sound of someone pounding on the door. “Anders?” Surana shouted.

Beside him, Anders let out a sigh of relief. “Andraste's flaming garters,” he muttered. “Come in!”

Surana slammed the door open. She was in full armor, the air around her pulsing slightly with magic. Garrett felt his stomach drop. “Ande-- oh, good, you're both here, saves me the trip,” she said. “Armed and armored and in the courtyard in ten minutes. The darkspawn are attacking Amaranthine.”

And with that, she vanished down the hall. Garrett and Anders shared a wide-eyed stare, then they both climbed out of bed and started collecting their clothes. “Ten minutes,” Garrett grumbled, shoving his feet into his boots. “I still have to get home and get into my armor.”

“I'll make sure we don't leave without you,” Anders said, voice muffled as he pulled his robes on over his head.

Garrett chuckled. “How thoughtful.” He grabbed Anders by the shoulder, turning the other man to face him, and gave him a quick kiss. “See you downstairs.”

“Yeah.” Anders smiled and started buckling his belts.

Garrett started running as soon as he hit the stairs, sprinting across the silent, pre-dawn courtyard back to the house. It only took a few minutes for him to pull on his armor and tuck a few lyrium potions into his belt pouch. He paused in the doorway of his room, patting himself down to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything vital, then grabbed his staff and stepped back into the hall.

“Garrett?” Bethany peered blearily at him, her dark hair a tangled mess around her face. “What's wrong?”

“The darkspawn are attacking the city.” He moved down the hall as quietly as possible. “Surana wants me to go.”

She straightened up, blinking at him. “Why you? You're not a warden--”

“I don't know,” he said. “There wasn't time to ask.”

Bethany stared for a second, then stepped forward and slid her arms around his waist. “Be careful,” she said, pressing her cheek to his chest.

Garrett wrapped his free arm around her and hugged her back. “I will,” he promised. “You and Carver look out for each other, all right?”

She nodded and let go. “We will.”

Garrett squeezed her shoulder, then headed for the door and hurried across the courtyard. There was a small cluster of people near the gates, as well as three horses, Garrett noted with distaste. “...in charge while I'm gone,” Surana said. Varel nodded. “If we ride hard, we should reach the city in a few hours.”

“Good luck,” Varel said.

Sigrun eyed the horses skeptically. “We're supposed to sit on these things?” she said.

“It's not that bad,” Surana said. “Varel, help her up-- she'll be riding with me.” She flashed Sigrun an apologetic smile. “I'll teach you how to ride once we get back.”

“I'm not sure I _want_ to learn,” Sigrun replied.

Garrett shook his head and swung into the saddle. Beside him, Anders did the same, readjusting his robes around his legs. “You actually own trousers?” Garrett asked, glancing at him. “I'm shocked.”

“They're part of the robes, actually,” Anders replied. “I just prefer not to wear them when it's already unspeakably hot outside.”

“Let's go,” Surana ordered, one arm around Sigrun's waist. The dwarf looked terrified, and she squeaked when the horse leapt forward to gallop down the road. Garrett nudged his horse after them, and they pounded out of the gates.

It was close to mid-morning by the time they came within sight of the city gates. Signs of the attack littered the road: the bodies of soldiers and darkspawn, though far more of the former than the latter. As they reached the last hill leading up to the city, Surana's horse stopped cold, refusing to take another step. Garrett's horse shied back from the road.

“They won't go near darkspawn,” Surana said, sliding out of the saddle. “Leave them.”

Garrett shrugged and dismounted, hurrying over to lend Sigrun a hand in getting down. “Thanks,” she said, looking a little green. “Can we not do that again?”

“I make no promises,” Surana said as she drew her sword and started for the gates.

“I can't believe surfacers travel like that,” Sigrun muttered.

“Not all of us do,” Anders said, falling in step beside Garrett.

Garrett nodded. “Mostly Orlesians, really.”

Sigrun started to reply, then she hissed between her teeth and looked towards the city walls. Garrett followed the warden's gaze. Columns of smoke rose into the sky, carrying the stench of burning wood and flesh. Garrett grimaced. It didn't speak well of his life that he recognized the smell of charred darkspawn.

“Come on,” Surana snapped, and then charged up the hill. Garrett readied his staff and followed.

He'd seen villages like this during the blight, places to the south where the darkspawn had struck, leaving nothing but corpses and tainted blood behind. There were still a few survivors fighting here, though: a cluster of injured guards, and farmers fending off the creatures with axes and pitchforks. There were fewer darkspawn outside the walls than Garrett had expected, and their arrival seemed to give the defenders new strength.

The strategic application of a few fireballs didn't hurt, either.

“Please, arlessa, my family-- my family is still within the walls!” The survivors mobbed Surana, pleading for help, as soon as the last darkspawn fell. She held up her hands in an attempt to calm them.

Aidan waded through the crowd, shouting for order. “I must speak to the arlessa!” he said as the guards herded the farmers away. Garrett moved to her side once the crowd cleared. The constable bowed. “Warden-Commander, I am glad you arrived when you did, but I fear there is little that can be done now.”

“What happened?”

He shook his head. “A couple of nights ago, a swarm of... of gruesome creatures emerged from beneath the city. They spread pestilence and destroyed everything they touched. Then, at dawn, the other darkspawn attacked.”

“This was yesterday?” Surana asked. “Why wasn't a messenger sent before now?”

Aidan looked down. “We sent three,” he replied. “I assume only the last got through. Perhaps if the others... but it's too late. Amaranthine is lost.”

“Lost?” Garrett repeated. “How can--”

“Constable!” one of the guards shouted. “A darkspawn is approaching-- alone!”

“Archers, take it down!” Aidan called. A few bows creaked as they were drawn around them, and Garrett readied a spell, just in case the first volley didn't finish it off.

“Peace!” the darkspawn shouted. Garrett stared, the spell dying around his fingers as his concentration shattered. “Do not be killing! Only talk! Architect has a message, for Grey Warden!”

Surana held up a hand. “Hold,” she said.

“Commander--”

“I said hold,” she snapped and strode forward toward the darkspawn.

Garrett glanced at Anders, eyes wide with shock. The other mage shrugged. “Told you,” he said. “Sounds like it got punched in the face.”

Surana stopped a few feet away from the darkspawn. “What is it?”

“The Mother's army, it marches to Vigil's Keep,” the darkspawn said. “She attacks now!”

Garrett couldn't hear the rest of the conversation over the roaring in his ears. His entire body went cold, fingers tingling and his chest hollow. He'd left them. He'd left his family behind. Garrett slowly closed his hands into fists and tried to remember how to breathe.

“If we leave now, we may be able to make it back to the Vigil in time to save it,” Garavel said. Garrett's head snapped up at the words, and he stared at Surana. She remained silent, listening to the conversation.

Aidan gestured at the city. “And what about the darkspawn here?”

“Soon, they will go to Vigil's Keep as well!” the talking darkspawn said. “The Mother, she wants the keep destroyed utterly!”

“No,” Garrett breathed, barely louder than a whisper.

Anders placed a hand on his arm. “Garrett...”

Garavel sighed. “The, ugh, the _darkspawn_ has a point,” he said. “We cannot leave with this other army hot on our heels. Constable Aidan says the city is lost. I say we destroy it. Burn it, and all the darkspawn within.”

“He's right,” Garrett said, finally finding his voice. “We have to return to the Keep. If the city's lost, there's no point in wasting our time here.”

“What?” Anders shook his head, his hand tightening on Garrett's arm. “No, we can't abandon the city! If there's even one innocent person in there--”

“And what about the people at the Keep?” Garrett yanked his arm back. “You'll abandon them for the _chance_ that someone might be alive in there?”

Anders stared. “You'd sacrifice an entire city for them?” he asked quietly.

“ _Yes_.” Anders didn't understand; none of them did. They didn't have families. They hadn't knelt by their father's bedside as he lay dying and promised to keep the family safe. He'd failed once already, been too slow to save Mother from the darkspawn. He'd be damned if he failed again.

“The Keep has walls,” Surana said, and Garrett felt his stomach drop. “Along with the bulk of our army and no small number of Wardens. Amaranthine is too important to the arling to sacrifice it so hastily. We stay.”

Garrett shook his head and stepped toward her. “We can't abandon them,” he said. “ _I_ can't abandon them!”

She stared at him, her jaw set and her eyes hard. “If you wish to make the trip back to the Keep on your own, I won't stop you,” she said. “But you will be going alone. I brought the three of you for a reason. If you leave... I don't know if we would make it back alive.”

His gaze flickered over to Anders, then back to Surana. “You can't be asking me this,” he said, his chest tight, every breath aching.

“I'm not asking you anything.” She folded her arms across her chest, and Garrett suddenly understood all too well how this woman had been able to best Teryn Loghain. “I am telling you what the situation is. What you do about it is up to you.” She jerked her head towards the city. “We're going in.”

The darkspawn protested, and Surana ordered it bound and kept out of the way. Garrett stared at the road, paralyzed. No matter what he did, he was going to hate himself for it.

“Garrett?” Anders asked. Garrett tore his eyes from the dirt beneath his feet and looked up. Anders was staring at him, eyes wide, his skin a few shades paler than normal. Garrett looked back over his shoulder at the road leading to Vigil's Keep.

If they died, he was never going to forgive himself.

“I'm so sorry,” he muttered and followed the others into the city.

*

Anders gritted his teeth and did his best to ignore the shouting coming from the front of the chantry. The revered mother took offense to having mages openly using their powers in such a sacred place; more specifically, she had started screeching at Neria about blood magic as soon as Anders had cast his first healing spell. There were so many injured. So many who had contracted the taint and were beyond help. He'd do what he could and let Neria deal with the priests.

He finished healing the gaping wound in a soldier's leg and dragged the back of his wrist across his forehead. His hands were already covered in blood. Anders took a deep breath and moved onto the next, a woman with bright red hair in the uniform of the guard. She had a pair of arrows lodged in her shoulder, but she stared straight ahead, one hand holding both in place. “That looks unpleasant,” he murmured, gently pulling her hand away.

“I've had worse.”

Anders smiled absently. “Have you now?” He wasn't really interested in the conversation, but keeping the woman talking would distract her from what he had to do.

“I was at Ostagar,” she said. “Spent four days with a broken-off arrowhead in my back. Couldn't get it out myself.”

“Mm.” Anders wrapped his fingers around the first arrow. “How'd that--” He yanked it free, and the woman hissed between her teeth. “Sorry. How'd that turn out?”

“Found my husband. He cut it out for me.” She winced as Anders pulled the second arrow free. He pressed his hand over the wounds and started pouring healing energy into her shoulder. She frowned at him. “You're Anders, aren't you?”

“That's the rumor,” he replied.

“Hawke's told me about you,” she continued. “I'm Aveline.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” Anders pulled his hand back. “A shame it wasn't under better circumstances.”

Aveline smiled faintly and rolled her shoulder. She winced a bit, but nodded. “Thank you.”

“Stay off it for the night,” he advised. “I'd tell you not to fight tomorrow, but given what Garrett's said about you, I know that will fall on deaf ears.”

She nodded and pushed herself to her feet. “He knows me too well,” she replied and slipped past him.

The patients started to blur together after that, an unending line of broken bones and burns and blood. Anders reached the end of a line and stood, grimacing as his knee popped and his head spun. He leaned a hand on the wall to steady himself. “Anders,” Neria said, appearing at his side. “Come on, you need to rest.”

“I need to...” He looked around and shook his head.

“You've done all you can,” she said, sliding an arm around his waist and leading him away. “Everyone else will survive on their own.”

“Or die,” Anders mumbled, leaning on her a bit.

Neria sighed. “Everyone who's going to do that already has,” she replied. “You have to rest.” She pushed open a door to a side room and walked him over to a narrow cot. Pounce was already curled up on the pillow, sound asleep. He'd only realized the cat had stowed away in his pack when they were a couple hours outside Amaranthine.

Anders collapsed onto the cot, holding his bloody hands away from him out of habit more than anything. Neria squeezed his shoulder and hurried off, returning a few moments later with a shallow bowl of water and a towel. “I think,” she said, dunking the towel in the bowl, “that this might be holy water.” She wrung out the towel and set it on his hands.

He managed a faint smirk. “Can't be,” he replied as he started to wipe off the blood. “It's not burning.”

Neria chuckled and patted his shoulder again before striding off. Probably to go do important Commander-type things. Now that he was sitting and not actively casting, Anders felt a little less dizzy. He glanced around the room; Sigrun was already sleeping in a nest of blankets on the floor, while Garrett sat on another cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor so hard Anders was surprised it hadn't burst into flames.

It took a while to finish cleaning his hands. The blood was caked in under his nails, and eventually, he just gave up. Anders glanced at Garrett again, then pushed himself to his feet. He'd taken two steps in the other man's direction when Garrett spoke.

“Don't.” Anders stopped in his tracks. Garrett let out a slow breath. “There is nothing you can say or do that isn't going to make me want to punch something. So just _don't._ ”

Anders swallowed hard, then nodded and retreated to his cot in silence. He scooped up Pounce and laid down on his side, facing the wall, and hugged the cat to his chest. Pounce laid his head on Anders's arm and purred reassuringly. Anders sighed and closed his eyes. He had to sleep. He was exhausted, and tomorrow wasn't likely to be any better. Without rest, he was no good to anyone. But he could hear Garrett breathing like he had to remind himself to do it with each exhale, and every time Anders closed his eyes all he could see was Garrett's face when they'd stood on the road, horrified and furious and frightened.

It had been years since he'd prayed, but he didn't know what else to do.

_6 August 9:32 Dragon_

It wasn't until the armored ogre collapsed, shaking the cobblestones under his feet, that Anders noticed it was raining. He leaned on his staff, gasping for breath, as a ragged cheer went up from the remaining guards and soldiers. Sigrun just sat down where she stood and pulled off her helmet, tilting her head back to stare up at the sky. Neria limped towards the constable, sword in hand, and Garrett leaned against the fence, one arm wrapped around his stomach. Anders could hear his breath hitching shallowly as he approached.

“Let me see,” Anders said quietly, resting his staff beside Garrett.

“I'm fine,” he replied.

Anders didn't even bother to argue. He wrapped his fingers around Garrett's wrist and pried his arm away, then splayed his hand against Garrett's chest. “Yes, three-- no, four broken ribs is perfectly fine,” he murmured. “Nothing to worry about.”

Garrett just looked away. Anders glanced over, following his gaze, to where Neria was questioning the talking darkspawn. “We're not going back to the Keep,” Garrett said.

Anders turned his attention back to healing. “We have to stop the darkspawn,” he replied. And of course _now_ he'd develop a sense of duty. It was quite inconvenient. He hoped it would go away soon.

“And leave everyone there to their fate.”

“The Keep will hold,” Neria said as she approached. She carried a staff with three wicked-looking, crescent-shaped blades on the top. “So long as we remove the one controlling the army. That's how we stopped the blight, and it's how we'll stop this.” She held the staff out to Anders. “Here. It's yours, if you like it.”

He reached out for it, then jerked his hand back. “Gah, cold.” He took the staff, feeling the power humming through it, and nodded. “Fancy. Thanks.”

“Where are we going?” Garrett asked, sounding resigned.

“The Dragonbone Wastes,” Neria said. “About a day's trip to the west. If we hurry, we'll make it before nightfall.”

Garrett nodded and stood up, his gaze distant and his jaw clenched. Anders sighed and walked over to Sigrun. “C'mon,” he said, offering her a hand up. “More darkspawn to kill.”

She looked away from the clouds and blinked at him with wide, blue eyes. “This is rain?”

He grinned. “Yeah. Pretty neat, huh?”

Sigrun laughed and shook her head, flicking droplets of water off her hair. “There's so much of it,” she said. “Where does it all come from?”

Anders pulled her to her feet. “I'll explain on the way.”

*

While Anders had claimed that rejuvenation spells had little practical application outside the bedroom, Garrett was incredibly grateful for them now. He was reasonably certain that he'd have fallen down at least one flight of twisting, cracked stone stairs without the extra boost of energy.

Of course, the energy was coming at Anders's expense. “Give me a second,” he rasped as they came to the top of yet another spiraling stair. He leaned against the wall, breathing hard, his hand trembling slightly as he lifted his flask to his lips. Garrett winced and fished out one of his lyrium potions. “Here,” he said, holding it out. Anders glanced over and took it with a grateful smile.

Surana stopped and turned back to look back at them. “You all right, Anders?”

He downed the potion, grimacing at the taste, and tossed the bottle off the edge. “Never better,” he replied. “I love visiting places that use meat as the primary decoration. Do you think I could redo my room like this when we get back?”

Assuming his room was even there when they got back. Garrett squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled through his teeth, burying images of his home burning, of Bethany and Carver-- no. He wouldn't even let himself think it. They would be fine. They had to be.

“No, Anders, you may not,” Surana said. “Let's go.”

Sigrun bounded down the stairs after her. Being underground only seemed to make her even more cheerful, somehow. At least she'd stopped whistling. Anders took a few deep breaths and straightened up. “Right,” he murmured.

Nothing attacked them on the stairs, for once, though all three Wardens still seemed on edge. “There's too many of them,” Surana muttered as they reached the base of the steps. “I can't pinpoint...”

“I can,” Sigrun said, pointing up at the top of the stairs. “Of course, that's only because I turned around...”

The Architect stared down at them, the tainted dwarf warrior by his side. Of Serrani, there was no sign, Garrett realized with a flash of guilt. They'd have to tell Velanna, if she was still alive when they returned. “And so we meet again,” the Architect said. The warrior drew her weapons and glared down at them. The darkspawn held out a hand and shook his head. “No, Utha,” he said. “That is not how this must begin.” Utha lowered her weapons; Sigrun and Neria both kept theirs in hand, however, and Garrett shifted his grip on his staff.

“I owe you an apology, Commander,” the Architect continued. Dirt and rock swirled around his body as he gently floated down to their level. Despite everything, Garrett raised an eyebrow. It was a pretty neat trick. “When last we met, I intended to explain myself. Fate, however, intervened.”

He landed about ten feet away from them and regarded Surana calmly. “We escaped, you mean,” she said dryly.

“I restrained you only to prevent the misunderstanding that occurred with the rest of your order,” the Architect replied.

“'Misunderstanding?'” Anders scoffed. “Is that what you call it?”

The Architect looked down. “I sent the Withered to ask for the Grey Wardens' help. I should have anticipated that you might view our approach as an attack.”

“You think?” Anders muttered.

“I am rarely able to judge how your kind will react,” the darkspawn continued. “It was most unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” Surana repeated. “You took those Wardens and bled them dry!”

The darkspawn shook his head. “The Grey Wardens that were brought to me were already dead. I took their blood just as I took yours: because I had little choice. Things... have not gone as I planned.”

Sigrun cleared her throat. “Not to point out the obvious,” she said, “but that's a _darkspawn_. Why aren't we killing it?”

“I only ask that you hear me out,” the Architect said. “Should you still wish to slay me afterwards...” The twisted corners of his mouth quirked up in something like a smile. “You may try.”

“What was your plan?” Surana asked. “What's your interest in the Wardens?”

The darkspawn looked away, staring off down the bridge leading out of the tower. “My kind has ever been driven to seek out the Old Gods. This is our nature. When we find one, a Blight is begun. Each time, we attack your surface lands, and you fight back until we are defeated. To break the cycle, my brethren must be freed of their compulsion. For that, I need Grey Warden blood.”

Surana frowned. “Why?”

“In order to become what you are, you drink the blood of my kind. To transform,” the Architect said. Garrett blinked. That was the Joining-- to drink darkspawn blood? He glanced at Anders, who met his eyes and shrugged slightly. “Similarly, _we_ must transform. I have created a version of your Joining that uses the blood of Grey Wardens. You take the taint into yourself. What we take is your resistance. In your blood lies the key to their immunity against the call of the Old Gods.”

Anders cleared his throat. “I like my blood where it is, actually,” he said. “In my veins.”

Surana exhaled and glanced over at Garrett. “Everything you just heard is a secret that has been guarded by the Grey Wardens since the first were founded in Weisshaupt a thousand years ago,” she said. “You are never to speak of it to anyone outside the Wardens. Agreed?”

Garrett had the distinct impression that if he didn't agree, she would kill him to keep the Wardens' secrets. He nodded. “Yes, Commander.”

She turned back to the Architect, pressing for information about his plans. He wanted to end the blights, and while his attempts had gone somewhat awry, it was a goal Garrett could sympathize with. “So what is your decision, then?” the Architect finally asked. “Will you help me to defeat the Mother? Or will you attempt to slay me?”

“I'd like to put in a vote for slaying,” Anders said. “It wants to take our blood, and I'm not comfortable with that, strictly speaking.”

“I agree,” Sigrun said. “The darkspawn are enough of a threat already. We don't need them able to think and reason and speak!”

Surana stared at the Architect and shook her head. “What he knows is too valuable to kill him,” she said. “It may only be a chance, but to stop the blights forever is too great a reward to pass up.”

“What?” Sigrun demanded. “Commander, you _can't--_ ”

“She's right,” Garrett said. “If there's a way to stop anyone else from losing what I lost to the blight... it's worth it.”

“Easy for you to say,” Anders grumbled. “You're not the one whose blood he wants to take.”

Surana shook her head. “I've made my decision,” she said sharply. “Removing the threat of the darkspawn from the world is worth the risk.”

Sigrun sighed. “You'd better be right about this,” she muttered. Anders just folded his arms and looked away.

The Architect bowed his head. “Thank you, Commander,” he said. “I realize what a leap of faith this is. I hope that I prove worthy of your trust.” He gestured at the bridge. “The Mother lies ahead. I cannot approach her physically-- her Children have created wards that hold me back. But when you reach her, I will do whatever I can to help you. You have my promise.”

He stepped aside, moving out of the way so they could continue. “Can I just say, for the record, that I don't like this?” Anders said.

“Duly noted,” Surana said. “Let's finish this.”

The bridge ahead was clear, but as they approached the archway, the Wardens all tensed. “Here they come,” Sigrun said as she rounded the corner into the next tower. Surana led the assault with a fireball, throwing several of the darkspawn off the edge of the stairs to the fiery doom. Then she and Sigrun charged down the steps. Garrett stayed a few paces behind them, while Anders remained on the first step, providing healing as needed.

Garrett cast a paralysis spell on the nearest darkspawn, then went after the distant emissary with a string of hexes and curses. It was barely able to move, limbs slowed and strength sapped, by the time Sigrun charged it. The air was thick with the smell of charred meat, courtesy of Surana's fireballs and the occasional blast of lightning from Anders.

Beyond the base of the stairs was a dark, narrow tunnel. Surana and Sigrun plunged in without hesitation; Garrett started to follow, but paused when he didn't hear Anders's footsteps. He looked back to see the other mage standing just outside the entrance, staring into the darkness with an expression akin to terror. “Come on,” Garrett said, stepping back out of the tunnel. “I'll take rear guard.” Anders swallowed hard and nodded, then took a deep breath and stepped into the tunnel. Garrett frowned and followed behind him.

The tunnel wasn't terribly long, fortunately, and a foul, rotting stench greeted them as they emerged onto a narrow strip of rock jutting out into an immense cavern. Something moved in the distance, like immense tentacles waving.

Anders groaned. “Oh, not again.”

“Not what again?” Garrett asked as they slowly approached.

“Broodmother,” Anders replied, cringing.

The movement wasn't _like_ immense tentacles; they actually were tentacles, four of them, swaying back and forth, sprouting from a putrid pile of flesh with the upper half of a human woman emerging from the top. Her face and neck were streaked with thick, dark blood. “Now the pieces fall into place!” the Mother screeched. “The Grey Wardens come, the instruments of the Father!” She laughed, and Garrett winced. If this was what Wardens were expected to face on a regular basis, then there was no possible way he was _ever_ joining. Ever.

“And the Father, he is but a shadow! Oh, how my children protect me! How they love me!”

A flickering, ghost-like image of the Architect appeared in front of the Mother. “I have told you many times,” he said, voice echoing, “I am not the Father. I am merely the Architect.”

“It does not change what you are! You took away that beautiful noise! Left us with _nothing!_ ” the Mother spat. She cackled. “Ah, but perhaps the Wardens would like to hear how it was that the Father began the blight?”

Surana turned to look at the image of the Architect. “Beg pardon?”

“You want the source of the archdemon, the one who brought all our kind to the surface! Here he is!” The Mother raised her arms and tentacles, while the Architect hung his head.

“Ah. There it is, then,” the Architect said. “Unfortunate.” He turned to look at Surana. “I did find the Old God, Urthemiel. But I did not wish another blight. I attempted my joining ritual.”

“Perhaps I should have killed it while it slept,” Surana murmured. “Of course.”

The Architect nodded. “My hope was that this would free all darkspawn, unravel the curse from its source. Alas, I was unlucky.”

Garrett sputtered. “Unlucky?” he snapped. “ _You_ were unlucky? I lost my home, my mother-- Surana, I changed my mind. Can we _kill_ this thing?”

“Little late for that, Hawke,” she ground out. “Right now, _that_ needs to die.” She gestured at the Mother with her sword.

The Mother smiled, a horrible, ugly twisting thing. “Perhaps we will hear the song again when we die,” she cried. “Oh, let it come. Let it come!” Her face split open as she screamed. The earth around them exploded with tentacles and darkspawn, and there was no time to think at all.

*

_8 August 9:32 Dragon_

The Keep wasn't on fire. That was the first thing to register in Anders's mind as they trudged up the road towards the gate. Not only was it not on fire, but it also appeared to be in one piece. Soldiers dragged darkspawn corpses into piles outside the walls; one of them looked up and let out a cry. “They've returned!” she shouted. “The Warden-Commander's returned!”

A cheer went up along the battlements. Neria smiled and raised a hand as they passed through the gates. Seneschal Varel, his armor spattered with blood and his left leg wrapped in bandages, hobbled towards them. “Commander,” he breathed. “Thank the Maker you've returned. The darkspawn laid siege to the Keep. But the walls held.”

“I can see that,” she said, looking up at them. “Remind me to give Voldrick a bonus.”

Varel's laugh turned into a cough. “I'll keep that in mind,” he said. “We—”

“Bethany!” Garrett bolted towards the well, where his sister crouched near a few injured soldiers. She straightened up and got half her brother's name out before he tackled her in a hug, crushing her against his chest.

Neria sighed. “Go on, you two,” she said, glancing at Anders and Sigrun. “Wash up, rest. Seneschal, I'm sure the men will be wanting a celebration, after all this. Can we arrange for that tonight?”

Varel nodded. “Of course. I believe Oghren may have already begun his own celebrations, to be perfectly honest.”

“That's hardly a surprise,” Neria muttered. “Do you have an idea of the casualties?”

Sigrun trudged towards the gates. Anders wanted nothing more than to climb into a bath and possibly fall asleep there, but people were injured. He couldn't just ignore them. As he limped towards the injured soldiers Bethany had been treating, someone ran past him and collided with Garrett. “Carver,” Garrett choked out, sounding close to tears, as he pulled his brother into a hug.

“We're fine, Garrett,” Bethany said, wiping at her eyes. “We're fine.”

“Like flames, you are,” he muttered. Bethany had bandages wrapped around her arm and throat, and Carver's armor was bloodstained and torn. “What happened?”

“We defended the Keep,” Carver replied. Anders crouched by the wounded soldier and exhaled slowly, reaching down deep for his last reserves of mana.

A light hand on his shoulder broke his concentration. “They're fine,” Bethany said. Garrett hovered behind her, one hand on her arm, as though he couldn't bear to let go of her. “Just resting.”

“You sure?” he rasped.

She nodded. “Velanna and I healed as many as we could,” she said. “Until... well...” She looked out towards the rubble and sighed. “I think I worked out how to heal properly, though.”

Anders huffed out a light laugh. “Nothing like a little pressure to make a lesson stick, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Garrett tugged at her arm. “C'mon,” he said. “Home. We need to... let's just go home.”

“Garrett, we're fine,” Carver said, trying to shrug off his brother's hand.

“I'm not,” Garrett snapped. “Let's just go. Please.”

Bethany slid her arm around his waist. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Come on, Carver.”

Anders watched the three of them walk away, Garrett leaning on his siblings, his head bent towards Bethany, and sighed. He needed to take a bath and then sleep for a few hours. There was no way he was missing the party. After the past few days, he really needed to get drunk.

Six hours later, Anders slumped against Neria's side, giggling and clinging to his half-empty mug. “A dragon?” Nathaniel asked, leaning on the table, his newfound inability to sit up straight the only sign that he was drunk. “Really?”

“Yup,” Anders said. “'s an awful lot of 'em. 'sposed to be est-- exc-- _extinct_ ,” he concluded carefully. “But they jus' keep showin' up everywhere.”

“Shouldn't have called it the Dragon Age,” Bethany put in sagely. “There'd be less of them then, probably.”

Anders nodded. “Name a century after 'em and they jus' feel like they gotta come back. Keep up 'ppearances.” He took a long drink of ale. “Be better if they'd called it the—the--the Kitten Age!”

Bethany giggled and leaned her head against Nathaniel's shoulder. He glanced at her and smiled faintly. Anders winked at the archer, then looked down the table as he drained his glass. Cheers and laughter from the gathered soldiers and Wardens echoed off the rafters. Carver and Oghren appeared to be in the middle of some kind of drinking contest, while Sigrun sat on the table above them, taking bets on the victor. Anders grinned and stumbled to his feet, intending to refill his glass. Someone moved near the doors, and he turned in time to see Garrett disappear out into the hall.

Anders frowned, then nodded to himself and stumbled after him. Everything would be all right now. Bethany and Carver were fine, the Keep was intact, even Garrett's dog had made it through the siege in one piece. Anders pushed the door open and looked around the hallway. Garrett hadn't gone far; he had a hand planted on the wall about fifteen feet away from the door, his gaze fixed on the ground.

“Hey, you,” Anders stage-whispered as he threw himself against Garrett's back, trusting the other man to support his weight.

Garrett grunted and staggered forward, almost dragging the both of them to the ground, before he got a second hand on the wall and stabilized himself. “Anders? What're you doing?”

“Sayin' hi. What're you doing?” Anders shifted position, trying to keep from sliding off Garrett and onto the cold, unforgiving stone floor.

“It was too loud,” Garrett muttered. “I needed a minute.”

Anders had managed to halfway wrap himself around Garrett's side, and he pressed his nose into Garrett's beard. The other man smelled like sweat and ale. “Are you _drunk_?” Anders asked in delight.

“I... might be,” Garrett said, as though each word required great concentration.

Anders giggled. “Why, Ser Hawke, I thought I'd _never_ see the day.”

“Shut up.” Garrett turned to look at him, brushing their noses together, and it was habit by now for Anders to lean in and kiss him.

Garrett didn't respond immediately, but after a few seconds, he groaned and slid his hands into Anders's hair. They ended up both leaning against the wall, neither one quite trusting their sense of balance to keep them upright. Anders pulled Garrett's shirt free of his pants and slid his hands up across the other man's chest, lightning sparking from his fingers. There were some spells that were absolutely vital that he be able to cast while drunk. A basic healing spell was one. His little electricity trick was another.

“Anders,” Garrett groaned, breath catching in his throat, then he spun them around and shoved Anders into the wall and kissed him hard, his hands sliding across the silk covering Anders's chest. Anders hooked two fingers around Garrett's belt and yanked him close. Garrett ducked his head to bite at Anders's neck; Anders slid his leg between Garrett's and grabbed his ass, pulling him forward. Garrett groaned and bit down on Anders's shoulder.

Anders chuckled. “Missed this, have you?” he murmured into Garrett's ear as he ground his leg up against him.

Garrett's breath stuttered. “Fuck,” he muttered. “This is-- oh, this is a _bad_ idea--”

“I know.” Anders traced his tongue around the edge of Garrett's ear. “Isn't it great?”

“We can't—” Garrett started to pull away, and Anders wasn't about to allow that sort of behavior. He followed, keeping their bodies pressed together, and glanced up and down the hall. After a moment, he nodded and titled his head to the side.

“C'mon,” he said, grabbing Garrett's belt again and tugging him along. Garrett staggered after him, trailing a hand against the wall and trying not to laugh.

There was an empty office another thirty feet down the hall, if he recalled correctly. Anders shouldered the door open and grinned. “Jus' like the Circle,” he slurred, pulling Garrett inside. “All you need's an empty room.” He giggled. “Or a dark corner in the library.” He had some fond memories of the history section, in particular.

Garrett kicked the door shut and all but dragged Anders to the floor. Most of the stone was covered by a dusty, but otherwise clean, rug. Anders had gotten laid in far worse places. Garrett braced himself on his elbow over Anders and leaned down to kiss him, one hand fumbling with the belt of his robe. Once the belt was free, he started to push Anders's robes up to his waist, but stopped when his hand brushed against Anders's leg. “Why are you still wearing pants?” he grumbled.

Anders shrugged. “Made sense at the time.”

“Ugh. I hate your clothes.” Garrett pushed himself up to his knees and set about dealing with his own trousers. Anders toed off his boots and wriggled out of his pants and smalls, then muttered a spell and slicked his palms with grease. He halfway sat up and leaned forward, then wrapped his fingers around Garrett's cock.

Garrett choked out a curse and jerked his hips forward. Anders let out a breathy laugh as he stroked him; Garrett's breath hissed through his teeth, and he curled forward, one hand planted on the carpet, the other gripping Anders's shoulder. With a low growl, he pushed Anders back to the floor and positioned himself between Anders's legs. Anders hooked his knee around Garrett's waist and ground their hips together encouragingly. Garrett hesitated, raising his head enough to meet Anders's eyes. “Are you-- we didn't--”

Anders groaned. “Just fuck me already,” he muttered. Not that the concern wasn't appreciated, but he was entirely too drunk and too hard to care at the moment.

“If you say so.” Garrett slid a hand down to guide himself, slowly pushing in. Anders arched his back and bit down on the side of one hand, the other clawing at the carpet, skating along the burning edge between pleasure and pain. Garrett yanked Anders's hand away and crushed their mouths together, the rough edges of his beard scraping against Anders's lips and chin. Anders pressed his hand to his stomach, channeling creation magic into himself to lessen the ache.

They moved together, fumbling for some kind of rhythm, Garrett's face pressed to Anders's shoulder and Anders's fingers tangled in the other man's hair. Garrett groaned and clenched his jaw, his breath coming in sharp gasps against Anders's throat, and he jerked his hand roughly over Anders's cock. Anders bit his lip hard and rocked against him. Garrett hissed something that might have been a curse and came, shuddering and gasping. Anders grabbed Garrett's wrist to keep the other man's hand moving; he replaced Garrett's hand with his own as he hit the edge, curling his fingers around himself.

For a few moments, they laid there together, quietly panting for breath. Then a peal of laughter rang down the hall and Garrett jerked backwards. Anders huffed out a breath. “Maybe we should--” he hissed as Garrett pulled out of and away from him, “--move the private party up to my room.”

Garrett pushed himself to his knees and looked around for his pants. His shirt was surprisingly clean; Anders glanced down at his own chest and grimaced, then rolled his eyes. Typical. “I should get back,” Garrett muttered.

“The ale wasn't _that_ good,” Anders said, grabbing his pants and wiping himself off.

“I need to--” Garrett cut himself off with a sharp breath. “Never mind.”

Anders pushed himself up to his elbows as Garrett got dressed. “They're _fine_ ,” Anders said. “The worst that'll happen to them is a hangover.”

Garrett scowled, and Anders suddenly had the sinking feeling that he'd said absolutely the wrong thing. “Knew you wouldn't understand,” Garrett said, more to himself than Anders. He pulled on his boots and stumbled to his feet, steadying himself on the wall for a moment. “I'll see you later.”

Anders stared after him, not quite believing what was happening until the door shut behind Garrett. He blinked in stunned silence for a few seconds, then huffed out a bitter laugh. “Right,” he muttered hollowly. “Later.” With a groan, he stood and grabbed his boots, then poked his head out into the hallway. Empty. Well, at least one thing was going right for him tonight. Anders sighed and started to walk back to his room.


	7. Chapter Six

_11 August 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett rubbed his forehead in an effort to ward off the headache building behind his eyes. With Surana and Nathaniel back in Amaranthine to help monitor the initial stages of rebuilding, Varel was once again left in charge of the Keep. Varel had, in turn, delegated a fair amount of his work to Garrett. Reallocating guard patrols wasn't exactly the most enjoyable way to spend his time, but it was better than being dragged elsewhere in the arling. He'd much rather be at the Keep, close to Bethany and Carver.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. The knot of dread in his chest still hadn't gone away, even though he knew they were both alive and safe and mostly unharmed. Bethany had almost taken an arrow through the throat, and going by the half-healed wounds Carver had proudly showed off at the celebration a few nights ago, his little brother had come very close to losing all of his limbs. Garrett closed his eyes for a moment and let out a slow breath. Too close. He'd come too close to losing what remained of his family, to breaking his vow to Father _again_ , to being left alone. He wouldn't let it happen again. They'd stay together, the three of them, and he wouldn't have to choose between them and... and the arlessa's orders.

Garrett shook his head and looked back at his papers. He had work to do. He couldn't start thinking about the look on Anders's face when he'd walked out two nights ago or else the ache in his chest would make it impossible to breathe, let alone focus. Just because things with Anders had gotten complicated didn't mean that his priorities could change. His family had to be first. He'd promised.

With a sigh, Garrett rubbed a hand over his face and picked up the next paper on his desk. A report detailing the destruction of the farms surrounding the Keep. He grimaced. It was so close to the harvest season, too... they'd have to import grain enough to feed the keep and the farmers throughout the winter. As if there was spare grain anywhere in Ferelden, with so much of the bannorn devastated by the Blight.

Someone rapped on the door. “Come in,” Garrett called, setting down his report. Carver stepped inside, wearing new armor, a mix of leather and silverite chain with the heraldry of the Vigil etched on the chest piece. “ _No_ ,” Garrett said, on his feet before Carver had even closed the door.

Carver folded his arms and stared levelly at him. “It's too late for you to argue,” he said. “Captain Garavel accepted my enlistment this morning.”

“You can't.” Garrett rounded his desk, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “It's--”

“Don't you bloody _dare_ tell me it's too dangerous!” Carver shouted. He pointed at the door. “I was out there fighting the darkspawn without Bethany, without _you_ , and I'm fine!” He let out a bitter bark of laughter. “Flames, I'm better than fine. Captain Varel recommended an officer's posting for me, that's how impressed he was with me during the siege. I'll be Lieutenant Hawke by the time the year's out.”

Garrett let out a slow breath. “Did you have to do this _now_?”

Carver snorted. “We've been here four months. How much longer was I supposed to wait?”

He didn't have an answer for that. All he knew was that he was _never_ going to be ready to think of his little brother leading soldiers into battle. It wasn't so long ago that he'd had to rescue Carver from the oak tree in the backyard or that they'd practiced sword-fighting with sticks or... Garrett shook his head. “The siege was just a few days ago,” he said. “You--”

“I've been using a sword for _years_ ,” Carver snapped. “And I know you've never thought much of my abilities, but _I_ know I can handle myself. So do Garavel and Varel.” He squared his shoulders and shrugged. “You're not talking me out of this, Garrett.”

Garrett closed his eyes for a moment and leaned against the desk. “You're the only brother I've got, Carver,” he muttered. “I can't lose you.”

Carver shook his head. “You're the only brother I've got, too,” he said. “But you don't see me locking you in the house to keep you from running off to play Warden.” He exhaled heavily. “I'm no mage. I'm no Warden, and _you_ don't need me. But this-- this is something I can do.”

Several seconds passed in silence while Carver glared at him and Garrett stared at the door. “When are you moving out?” Garrett finally asked.

“I dropped off my things before I came here,” he replied.

“Of course you did.” Another long stretch of silence. “Try not to be too much of a stranger,” Garrett finally said, voice tight. “Beth'll want to see you.”

“I know.” Carver sighed and started to say something else, then shook his head and turned towards the door.

Garrett glanced up. “I wish you weren't doing this,” he said as Carver opened the door.

Carver stopped and huffed out a frustrated breath. “Thanks, Garrett,” he said, voice cold. “At least Bethany was proud of me.” He stormed out and slammed the door behind him.

Garrett flinched and stared at the floor. There was nothing he could do. Varel and Garavel were both on Carver's side, and Surana would just tell him he was being an idiot. But she didn't even remember her family, she wouldn't understand. It was his job to protect them. He couldn't very well do that if Carver was off fighting darkspawn and bandits and Maker knew what else.

He shook his head. “Lieutenant Hawke,” he repeated. What would Father have thought, he wondered. The answer was instant; he'd have been proud. As would Mother. Garrett sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He _was_ proud, but he'd almost lost Carver a few days ago. It was hard to embrace the idea of him running straight back into danger so soon.

Garrett pushed off the desk and started towards the door. Anders would listen to him, at least, even if the other mage thought he was being an idiot too--

He stopped with his hand over the doorknob. He had work to do. He couldn't run off and avoid it. Besides, Anders was probably still busy. Last he'd heard, the infirmary was seeing a steady stream of injuries from the siege. They both had jobs to do. Garrett sat back down at his desk and tried to ignore the pounding in his head.

*

_15 August 9:32 Dragon_

“Of _course_ she's not dead,” Anders said matter-of-factly. It had only been a week since the siege, and the dinnertime conversations still inevitably found their way back to the missing and the dead. It was an important distinction, Anders felt. They weren't necessarily one and the same, no matter what the official records might say.

Nathaniel and Sigrun exchanged matching, incredulous looks, then turned to stare at Anders. “Not to be indelicate, but a wall fell on her,” Nathaniel said.

“And they didn't find a body,” Anders said. “Not even any blood. Don't you two read?”

“All the time,” Sigrun replied, palming a roll off Anders's plate.

He scrunched up his nose at her. “You're reading the wrong books, then. Everyone knows that if someone appears dead, but they never find a body, the person obviously isn't dead.” He grabbed a new roll and took a bite. “Velanna's still out there somewhere,” he said.

Nathaniel sighed. “I hope you're right, Anders.”

“That’s not something I hear very often,” Neria commented as she dropped into the chair next to Anders. He stuck his tongue out at her; she just smirked. “Put that away unless you plan to use it.”

Sigrun laughed, while Nathaniel raised his eyebrows and blinked. “Oh my, Commander,” Anders purred. “Aren’t we feeling feisty today?”

She shrugged, still smiling, and scooped vegetables onto her plate. “I had a good day,” she said.

“Want me to make it even better?” Anders asked with his best smoldering leer.

“Wouldn’t Hawke have something to say about that?” she replied.

Anders shrugged and turned back to his food. “I doubt it,” he replied lightly. It’d been a week since he’d seen Garrett more than in passing. The other mage clearly had more important things on his mind.

“You could ask him,” Sigrun said, nodding at the doors. Anders glanced over and bit back a sigh. Bethany marched Garrett into the dining hall, her hands on his arms; she spotted them and smiled, then aimed her brother in their direction. Garrett looked resigned to his fate.

Anders tried not to wince. “Please don’t ask him,” he muttered, turning back to his food. This was going to be awkward enough as it was.

“Good evening, everyone,” Bethany said with a sweet smile. She pushed Garrett into the empty chair beside Sigrun, which put him directly across from Anders. Garrett pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, while Anders pretended to be fascinated with the food on his plate.

“Evening, Bethany,” Neria said, grinning. “Is there a reason for the manhandling?”

“No,” Garrett grumbled.

“He hasn’t eaten all day.” Bethany started to fill a plate with food and rolled her eyes.

Garrett dropped his hand and shot her a dirty look. “That’s blatantly untrue.”

“A muffin eaten before sunrise doesn’t count,” she said. “You and Carver really couldn’t manage without me around, could you?”

That drew a weak smile out of him. “We’d be dead within the week,” he agreed as Bethany set the plate of food in front of him. “Not because of starvation, though. We’d just kill each other.”

“I hear Carver’s in the--” Sigrun stopped abruptly as Bethany made frantic throat-cutting motions.

Garrett glanced over and rolled his eyes. “I can _see_ you, Beth,” he said and stabbed his fork into the vegetables with more force than strictly necessary.

“Well, you can’t say I don’t try,” she muttered and sat down next to Nathaniel. Garrett frowned and glanced at Anders; Anders promptly looked away. Maker, it was like he was fifteen again, awkwardly avoiding the girl who’d checked (and circled, and drawn little arrows towards) ‘no’ on his ‘do you like me?’ note. Except he’d been pretty sure that Garrett did like him, at least somewhat. He sighed inwardly. Too damn complicated, all of it.

“So, Nate, Commander, how’s Amaranthine?” Sigrun asked, diplomatically steering the conversation toward less mortally embarrassing waters. Anders flashed a brief smile at her in gratitude. Nathaniel scowled at the nickname, but didn’t try to correct her.

“As well as can be expected, given the circumstances,” Neria said. “We’ve too few soldiers to guard the arling, though. I wrote to the queen to request aid, but ‘too few soldiers’ describes the state of Ferelden in general, right now.”

Garrett raised his fork in a mock-salute. “Thank you, Teryn Loghain.”

Neria nodded wearily. “We’d be in a much better place if he hadn’t--”

“You know, I had thought that being arlessa would come with a nicer residence,” a thick, unfamiliar accent said from the nearest set of doors. Anders looked over as a handsome, blonde elf in fine leather armor ambled towards them. “I really must teach your countrymen about proper palaces, _mi amor._ ”

“Zev,” Neria half-gasped, half-sobbed, and launched herself out of her chair. The elf—Zevran, Anders presumed—took two steps forward to meet her, holding his arms out. He staggered back when Neria hit him, both of them murmuring quietly to each other as they embraced. Neria pulled back and laid a hand on Zevran’s cheek, smiling brilliantly, then leaned in and kissed him.

Anders smiled to himself and looked away, giving the two of them their moment. No one else at the table seemed to have any such concept of manners. After at least half a minute, Garrett tilted his head to the side slightly and frowned. “Don’t they need to breathe?” he murmured.

Anders glanced back at them and raised an eyebrow. “Apparently not.” Garrett chuckled, and out of the corner of his eye, Anders could see him smirking.

Eventually, the two of them did come up for air, and Anders resisted the urge to catcall. “I apologize,” Zevran said, with a smile that meant the opposite, “we must be causing _such_ a scene.”

Neria grinned and rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“True.” He grinned back. “So! Are you going to introduce me to your friends, or shall we just maintain an air of mystique for now?”

“You’re Zevran, right?” Sigrun asked with a cheerful wink at Anders.

He picked up on her game and jumped in. “Antivan Crow, met Neria when you were hired to assassinate her, whirlwind romance… shall I go on?” Anders said, grinning.

Zevran sighed and stared at Neria in mock-disappointment. She shrugged. “I’ve never been very good at mystique.” She slid her arm around his waist and guided him over to the table for introductions. Zevran felt the need to flirt with everyone sitting at their table; he made Garrett blush, which Anders noted with a scowl, and earned homicidal glares from both Garrett and Nathaniel when he kissed Bethany’s hand and referred to her as ‘a radiant jewel of the south.’ “And this is Anders,” Neria said when they came around to him.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Zevran purred.

Anders met the charming smirk on the elf’s face with one of his own. “Oh, likewise.”

Zevran half-turned to Neria. “Mm, _mi amor_ , is he the one you told me about?”

“Who taught me the electricity thing?” She grinned. “Yep.”

Zevran grabbed Anders’s hands in both of his. “You, ser, are a beautiful and wonderful person, and I owe you a debt of gratitude I can _never_ repay,” he said fervently.

Anders arched an eyebrow and smirked. “You like it that much, huh?"

“It is _magnificent_.”

On the other side of the table, Garrett scowled at his plate, very carefully not looking at Anders or Zevran. “Mm. Maybe sometime I could show you and Nery the original,” Anders suggested. He wasn’t sure if that would count as fraternization, and if it did, whether or not Neria would actually care. Still, since Garrett didn’t seem interested anymore, Anders was clearly going to have to start looking for other ways to entertain himself.

Zevran chuckled. “Perhaps,” he said with a wink. Neria shot Anders a pointed look as they moved on to Sigrun (“such beautiful eyes, like shimmering pools of water in sunlight!”); he just smiled blandly and looked innocent in response.

Neria dragged Zevran off not long after, issuing an order that she was not to be disturbed unless the keep was on fire, and even if it was, they really ought to try and deal with it themselves before coming to her. Zevran just laughed and waved good-bye at them as they swept off.

“They’re so _sweet_ ,” Bethany cooed, her chin in her hands and her dinner forgotten.

Anders snorted. “They looked about thirty seconds away from going at it on the next table,” he replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the soldiers eating behind them. “I’m not sure I’d classify that as sweet.”

“Would have done wonders for recruitment, though,” Nathaniel muttered. Garrett huffed out a laugh and shook his head.

Bethany hmphed and turned back to her food. “I still think it’s sweet,” she said primly.

Sigrun, who had been frowning in contemplative silence since Zevran and Neria left, sighed. “I wonder if _he_ can explain what an Antivan milk sandwich is,” she said. Anders almost choked on his ale.

As dinner ended, the others wandered away from the table in ones and twos; Bethany and Sigrun headed for the library to exchange book recommendations, Nathaniel vanished, and Garrett announced his intent to return to his office and finish up some paperwork. He hadn’t quite directed the statement at Anders, but his intent was still obvious. Anders sighed as he watched the other man leave, then went back to his room. He knew this game well enough.

Anders sort of wished he was surprised when Garrett showed up at his door that night. The rest of him ignored the bitterness and dragged Garrett down to his bed.

*****

_19 August 9:32 Dragon_

It shouldn't have been him. There had to be someone else in the Vigil who could have done this, handled the woman's tears and the man's clenched fists better. Garrett sighed inwardly. Farmers with only one surviving son, and that son had gone missing. One of the patrols had reported it a few nights ago, and after looking into it, Garrett had asked that they come to the keep.

“Did your son--” Garrett glanced at his notes for a moment, “--Torin, did he travel the roads alone often?”

The man nodded. “Often enough,” he replied, voice brittle. His wife leaned against his side, clutching his arm, still weeping. “He'd go to see his friends in the village. We told him not to go alone, but he said that since the darkspawn were gone, it was safe..."

“The arlessa _said_ they were gone,” the woman snapped through her tears. “The Wardens were supposed to drive them out, and now they've killed him!”

Garrett sighed. Of course they'd blame darkspawn. But they weren't mages, and they hadn't retraced the man's steps with a tracker at their side. They hadn't seen the blood in the grass or felt the lingering energy of foul, corrupt magic, a tearing of the Veil that had yet to heal. “It wasn't darkspawn,” he said. “After the patrol brought in your report, I investigated the area.”

“And?” the man demanded.

He hesitated. He could lie, blame it on bandits or wild animals. But if it had been his family, he'd want to know the truth. “I have reason to believe that blood mages were responsible.”

Silence met his statement. Garrett braced himself for the inevitable outburst. “Mages?” the man repeated, stunned. “But why... what would they want with him?”

“They killed him,” the woman sobbed. “Killed him and used his blood in their rituals!” She glowered at Garrett, heedless of the tears running down her face. “The arlessa's one of them. Damned mages! The Templars should just kill every last one of them--”

Garrett glanced at the guard standing by the door and tilted his head at the bereft couple. The guard nodded and stepped outside, returning a moment later with another two soldiers. “I will do everything I can to find the people who took your son,” he said as the guards encouraged the farmers to stand.

“Start with that knife-ear on the throne,” the woman snarled. “Ought to kill every filthy mage here--”

The guards ushered them out of the reception room, though Garrett could still hear the woman's ranting echoing back down the hall. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then sighed and folded up his notes, returning them to his pocket. He had to find these maleficar. They were giving the rest of the arling's free mages a bad name.

“It is an injustice.”

Oh, Maker. Garrett frowned at the corpse lurking in the doorway. At least Justice hadn't shown up until _after_ the hysterical woman had disappeared. That was the last thing they needed: accusations of demon-haunted zombies roaming the halls would bring the Templars down on them all, Wardens or not. “What is?” he asked.

“Her accusations.” Justice folded his arms over his chest. Garrett tried not to wince as flesh along Justice's neck tore with the motion; Anders's preservative spells could only do so much. Someone really should have tried to embalm the body. “She has been wronged, but not all mages are responsible for it.”

“Yes, well, people don't often see the distinction.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Most people don't know any mages. And the Chantry does a very good job of keeping everyone else afraid of us.” Garrett pushed himself out of his chair and grimaced when his spine cracked.

“You should have explained--”

“I didn't want to get my throat torn out,” Garrett cut in. “There's a time and a place for preaching about how not all mages are bloodthirsty monsters, and that wasn't it.”

“When is the correct time and place, then?” Justice asked, almost a demand. Garrett narrowed his eyes at the spirit. “There are so many free mages here, yet none of you do anything to help your kind who remain oppressed.”

“That's because we prefer to remain alive, spirit,” he retorted. “Going up against the Chantry is a quick trip to an early death.”

Justice shook his head. “It is an injustice to let others remain enslaved while you walk free,” he said.

Garrett stared at him for a few seconds. “I think I like spirits better when they ignore this side of the Veil,” he said flatly. “Seems to work out better for everyone involved.”

He stalked out into the hallway, heading in the general direction of his office. Low, orange beams of sunlight filtered through the windows; it was later in the day than he'd thought. Maybe another hour of studying maps and reports, then he'd get dinner.

Garrett rounded the corner and nearly tripped over Sigrun. She yelped and jumped backwards, almost colliding with Anders. “By the Stone, I _knew_ that no one could manage legs that long!” she said, backing away from them both.

Anders smirked. “Not all of us have your natural grace,” he said with a wink; Sigrun grinned back. He glanced over at Garrett. “Are you coming tonight?” he asked, gesturing vaguely towards the front of the fortress.

“Coming to-- oh. Right.” Surana had finally emerged from her bedroom, grinning from ear to ear and limping slightly, and invited several of the Wardens and advisers to the tavern for a night of drinking and celebration. Garrett wasn't exactly sure what they were celebrating, though he could hazard a guess. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Oh, I know that look,” Anders drawled, folding his arms over his chest. “That's his 'I can't possibly spend time with my friends, I'm too busy doing Important Work' look.” Garrett blinked at him; Anders just smirked mirthlessly and raised his eyebrows in silent challenge.

Sigrun either overlooked or missed the exchange entirely. “C'mon, Hawke,” she said. “You look like you could use a few drinks.”

It had rather been that sort of day. He sighed. “Let me stop by my office, and I'll meet everyone there,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” Anders said skeptically.

Garrett rolled his eyes and pointed at his belt. “I'm carrying sensitive documents here! I'll drop them off and then go to the tavern. Promise.”

“Except 'dropping them off' will turn into 'oh, just let me finish this report,' and then we'll never see you,” Anders said.

Garrett frowned. Maker, but Anders was in a snarly mood. “You want to play escort?” he asked, smirking. “Make sure I don't get distracted?”

Anders rolled his eyes and looked away. “What's 'male-if-a-car' mean?” Sigrun asked, squinting at the papers in her hand. Garrett clapped a hand to his belt. She glanced up at him and grinned. He sighed, holding out his hand; she returned them with a smile and a bow.

“It's a fancy word for blood mage,” Garrett answered. “I'm going to go secure these, since obviously I'm an easy mark,” Sigrun beamed at him, “and then I'll be down.”

Anders shrugged. “All right.” He tilted his head at the hall; he and Sigrun walked off, chatting amicably, as Garrett continued on to his office.

Fifteen minutes later, the last of the sunlight had nearly vanished, and Garrett shouldered open the door to the Prince's Flask. A wave of sound hit him as he stepped inside. “Hey, Hawke's here!” Sigrun called, waving at him from a table to the left of the door. The others turned towards him and waved, greeting him with shouts and raised mugs. Garrett smiled faintly and walked over. “Looks like you don't get to drink his after all, Anders,” Sigrun said as she slid over on the bench, making space between herself and Anders.

“Ah, well,” Anders said with an amicable shrug. “There's always more ale, right?” Garrett sat down between them; Anders slid a mug over to him and smiled, looking a bit surprised to see him. Garrett nodded his thanks and took a drink.

“...and that's how we learned that an ax is a better lockpick than the elf here,” Oghren concluded sagely.

Zevran grinned and shrugged. “I admit, my skills had eroded somewhat,” he said. “But breaking into every locked chest between here and Jader gave me a chance to hone them anew. Lucky for me, really. They were quite helpful when I was hunting Crows across half of Antiva.”

Anders sighed longingly and leaned his chin on his hand. “I've always wanted to go to Antiva,” he said. “If the Templars hadn't caught me this last time, I'd probably be in Antiva City right now.”

“Ah, you would have liked Antiva,” Zevran said. “So long as you could avoid the Templars, yes? It is a glimmering jewel, my Antiva City--”

Surana rolled her eyes. “Oh, here he goes,” she muttered.

“But not so lovely a gem as you, my love,” Zevran concluded, leaning in towards her with a bright smile. Surana laughed and kissed him lightly.

Sigrun cocked her head to the side. “I can't decide if I should find it endearing or nauseating,” she said, watching as the couple rubbed their noses together.

“I wanted to hear more about Antiva,” Anders complained. He downed the rest of his glass and shook his head. “Who needs another?”

Surana and Oghren both held up their hands, the latter chugging his almost-full mug as he did so. Anders clambered over the bench; Garrett watched as he ambled up to the bar, frowning a bit as Anders flirted with the bartender.

The door slammed open, admitting a crowd of noisy, laughing soldiers. Garrett glanced up and did a double-take when he spotted Carver among them. He hadn't seen his brother in over a week. Carver looked around the bar, his gaze falling on Garrett. They stared at each other for a moment, then Carver deliberately turned away, following the soldiers to a table in the corner. Garrett scowled as Anders returned to the table with fresh mugs of ale. The conversation continued around him; Zevran launched into another tale of his adventures in Antiva, this one involving a highly-placed assassin, an abandoned house, and an untold number of chickens.

Garrett mostly tuned it out, nursing his ale and stealing glances at his brother from time to time. Carver was talking and laughing with the others, looking more comfortable than he'd been since Mother died. Garrett swallowed hard. He'd tried to do what was best for them both, but if Carver was happier in the bloody barracks than he was at home... He winced and took a long drink.

“Hey.” Anders leaned against his shoulder, beaming, and looped his arm around Garrett's elbow. Two drinks in _was_ the clingy stage, Garrett thought. “What's with all the brooding?”

He shook his head. “It's nothing.”

“Doesn't _look_ like nothing. Looks like brooding.” Anders inched closer to him. “Brooding's not the best look on you.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean, it's not a _bad_ look, but I don't think you have bad looks,” Anders continued. “Just, you know, different levels of sexy. Brooding's a lower one.” He tried to demonstrate the idea with his hands, but managed to get himself even more tangled around Garrett in the process.

Garrett shook his head. “I'm fine.”

“Don't believe you,” Anders said. He paused for a moment, then grinned. “Want me to take the edge off for you? I can be very... comforting.” He slid a hand across Garrett's thigh and leaned up to whisper into Garrett's ear. “It's early,” he murmured, and Garrett had to fight not to shiver. “We'd have all night.”

Garrett exhaled slowly. Before he could reply, Carver's laughter rang out across the room, joined by the cheering voices of strangers. He glanced over to see his brother leaning over the table, grinning, a fellow soldier clapping him companionably on the shoulder. “Not really in the mood for it tonight,” Garrett muttered, pulling away from Anders.

“Your loss,” Anders replied, shifting his weight to the table. His gaze flickered around the room. “You won't mind if I find someone who is in the mood?”

“Of course not,” Garrett said before he could think about it. Before the jealousy and regret strangled him into silence. They'd agreed that this was casual, just for fun, and he had to respect that. If he said no, that would probably end things. He doubted Anders would choose him over his freedom to roam.

Anders nodded and drained his glass. “All right,” he said and pointedly starting scanning the room.

Garrett looked away, jaw clenched, and shoved his mug across the table to Oghren. “Enjoy,” he said. Oghren just toasted him with the mug. Garrett got to his feet and nodded at Surana. “I need to finish up some work,” he said. “I'll see everyone later.”

Surana glanced back and forth between him and Anders, then sighed. “Good night, Hawke.”

Garrett forced himself to walk to the door calmly, instead of storming out like he wanted to. As soon as the door shut behind him, though, he shoved his hands in his pockets and scowled, stomping up the path to the keep. He'd lose himself in work, read reports until he was too tired to see straight. Maybe that'd keep him from thinking about Anders with—with whoever he found. Garrett gritted his teeth. “Damn it all.”

*

_21 August 9:32 Dragon_

Anders slid his fingers along the sides of the soldier’s wrist, frowning slightly. “Can you make a fist?” he asked, feeling the shifting muscle and bone with his hands and his magic. “Does that hurt?”

She shook her head. “Just a bit.”

“Mm.” He picked up the splint and bandages, gesturing for her to hold out her arm. “Best to keep this on for another week,” he advised. “Just to be safe.”

She made a face as he rewrapped the bandages. “It’s been weeks since I’ve held a sword,” she grumbled.

“And you might never hold one again if you don’t let this heal properly.” Anders smiled brightly at her. A little fear went a long way in making patients obey his orders. “Come back in a week and we’ll see how it’s healing.”

“Thank you, ser.” She slid off the exam table and headed for the door. “Oh, sorry,” she murmured, stepping aside to let Garrett in. Anders raised an eyebrow at him. He hadn't expected to see the other man so soon; normally, when Garrett decided to get all sulky and distant, he vanished for a week, minimum.

“You hurt?” Anders asked, glancing at Garrett as he on to the next patient. Most of the injuries from the siege had healed, but there were still a few cases that needed more attention: broken bones, limbs that had nearly been detached, that sort of thing.

Garrett shook his head and leaned against the wall. “No, I’m fine,” he replied. “No rush.”

“Suit yourself.” Anders turned to the man sitting stiffly on the next cot: a guard who’d been burned by an emissary’s fireballs. The man’s left arm and side were swathed in bandages; Anders put a hand on the man’s shoulder, pouring soothing creation energy into him, as he peeled the cloth away from the raw wounds. “This is coming along,” he murmured, eying the tender pink skin. “Should be back to normal soon enough. Looks like you’ve been keeping everything clean.”

The man just nodded, his jaw clenched in pain. Anders quickly applied new bandages, urging the healing process along with small bursts of magic. Healing magic could save lives, but getting a body to heal itself was almost always preferable. Giving it a little nudge in the right direction didn’t hurt, though. “There,” Anders said as he carefully tied off the last bandage. “Keep everything clean, and come back to see me in a few days.”

“Thanks.” The guard stood, wincing, and slowly walked to the door. Garrett was still by the wall, but rather than leaning against it with practiced nonchalance, he’d crouched down to scratch Pounce on the head.

Anders smiled in spite of himself. “So you’ve finally decided you like him, hm?” he asked, collecting the dirty bandages.

Garrett glanced up. “I always liked him,” he replied. Pounce meowed and nudged his hand. “I just didn’t want to break him or something. I’m used to dealing with Rascal. Mabari can handle being stepped on or tripped over or kicked in the middle of the night a bit better than a kitten.”

“You kick Rascal?” Anders affected a scandalized look as he dumped the bandages into the waste bin.

“When I’m sleeping and he’s by my feet? It’s been known to happen.”

“You let your _dog_ sleep in your bed?” Anders asked in mild horror. He dunked his hands into a basin of water to clean them, heating it with a burst of arcane energy.

Garrett rolled his eyes and straightened up. “You let Pounce sleep in yours.”

“Pounce is tiny and adorable,” Anders replied. “Rascal is… slobbery. And huge.”

“Are you calling my dog fat?” Garrett asked, a hand pressed to his heart, eyes wide with mock offense.

Anders dried off his hands and smirked. It was nice, talking and joking with Garrett again. Felt like things were getting back to—well, not normal, but back to whatever they’d had before the siege. “You said it, not me,” he replied and leaned back against his workbench.

Garrett grinned and ambled over, Pounce mewing pitifully as he trotted along behind him. Anders patted his shoulder; Pounce hopped up to the workbench, then up to Anders’s shoulder, draping himself around Anders’s neck like a purring, furry scarf. “Good kitty,” Anders said, scratching Pounce between the ears.

“You still seeing a lot of injuries from the attack?” Garrett asked.

Anders shrugged, his cat shifting slightly with the motion. “There’s enough. The first few couple days were pretty awful,” he said, then almost immediately regretted mentioning that particular period of time. “It’ll be another few weeks before I’m done with the daily appointments.”

Garrett frowned. “This is gonna be another rough winter,” he said. “Between the army and the crops both being decimated… this is all the excuse people will need to turn on the arlessa. Again.”

“Being a mage and an elf wasn’t excuse enough?”

“More excuses, then,” Garrett amended with a bitter smile.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Anders said. “Most professional assassins are from sunny Antiva. They’ll be crippled by the frigid Fereldan winter, and you won’t have to worry about them until spring.”

Garrett chuckled and shook his head. “I’m less worried about professional assassins and more about angry mobs,” he said. “Or angry soldiers. Or Templars, angry or not.”

“In my experience, when they’re coming to collect a renegade mage, they’re _always_ angry,” Anders said with false lightness. “And don’t you need to worry about angry smugglers and angry blood mages, too?”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Garrett muttered. “Though those groups aren’t so much interested in assassination as, you know, extortion and kidnapping and murder.”

“Fun.” Anders glanced back over his shoulder as Pounce jumped down, landing on the workbench with a thump. “And here I thought things might get _boring_ without the darkspawn.”

Garrett smirked. “That was silly of you.”

Anders smiled back, briefly, before an awkward silence fell over the room. Talking used to be so easy between them, and now Anders had no idea what to say. Garrett glanced around, apparently finding the rafters endlessly fascinating. Eventually, Anders cleared his throat and straightened up. “Did you need something in particular?” he asked, turning toward his workbench.

“I can’t just drop by?”

He could, but he hadn’t bothered, not recently. “Sure,” Anders replied, fiddling with a stack of bandages. “My door’s always open.”

“Except for when it’s locked,” Garrett muttered, so quietly that Anders wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear. Garrett ignored him for days, then got snippy when he went elsewhere—flames, the man was bloody impossible.

Anders set the bandages aside. “Well, a man needs private time, after all.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Garrett startle, and Anders allowed himself a tense, victorious smile.

Garrett looked away and shook his head. “I should go,” he said. “Have to write another report on the blood mages and hope Carver doesn't volunteer to go after them out of spite.”

“Have fun,” Anders replied, pulling open a random drawer and rummaging through the contents. Garrett hesitated for a moment, then turned on his heel and stalked off. The door shut behind him with a careful, quiet click. 

Anders shoved the drawer shut again and planted his hands on top of the workbench. “Andraste's knickerweasels,” he grumbled. Pounce hopped down from his shelf and twined himself around Anders's arms, purring in what Anders assumed was sympathy. “Idiot. Why haven't I drowned him in a bucket yet?”

Pounce nipped at Anders's wrist and jumped to the floor, then careened across the room to attack a stray bit of fabric. “Right, because you like him. Traitor.” Anders shook his head. “You're supposed to be on  _my_ side.” 

*

_26 August 9:32 Dragon_

_...growing more and more uncertain about responsibility for Rylock's death. While some think that the arlessa is behind it, they are reluctant to move against her at this time. Many in Amaranthine are..._

Garrett glanced up from the report when the back door slammed shut. “Garrett?” Bethany called, her footsteps drawing closer as she made her way down the hall.

“In here,” he called back. He leaned back from his desk, wincing when his spine cracked. It was well after sunset; he must have been reading for hours. The Templars were still circling, and he'd be damned if he let them take Anders. Or Surana.

Bethany poked her head around the door and smiled at him. “Hey, you,” she said, slipping inside.

“Hey yourself.” Garrett set the report down and turned in his chair, smiling at his sister as she sat down on the edge of his bed. “You were out late.”

“Yeah, a few of us got to talking after dinner,” she said. “Sorta lost track of time.” She shrugged. “At least it's a safe walk.”

“True.” Garrett hesitated for a moment before asking, as casually as possible, “Who all was there?”

Bethany blinked, then narrowed her eyes at him. “Anyone in particular you're asking after?”

“Just curious.”

“Right. And the blight was just a skirmish,” Bethany replied. “Anders or Nathaniel?”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “I'm not--”

“Yes, you are.” She shook her head. “Anders wasn't there, for the record. Nathaniel was, along with Sigrun and Oghren and a few of the officers.”

“Not Carver, though.” Bethany shook her head. Garrett sighed. “Have you talked to him lately?”

“We had dinner together a few nights ago,” she replied. “He seems happy.” Garrett's shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Bethany exhaled sharply. “Garrett, you can't possibly be upset that he's doing well.”

“It's not...” Garrett frowned. “I feel like I let him down,” he said. “This was supposed to our home, and he...”

Bethany sighed. “This wasn't your fault,” she said. “He wanted to join the army even before--” Her voice broke for a second, and she swallowed hard before continuing. “Before Mother died. He'd have done it no matter what happened.”

“That doesn't make me feel any better about it."

“He's happy there,” Bethany said. “Maybe you should just be happy for him and stop acting like he's stabbed you in the back. It's not like he joined the Templars or something.”

Garrett adopted a stern look. “Bethany Hawke, you know how much it annoys me when you start making sense.”

“I know,” she replied with a grin. “Sorry.”

“Lies.”

She giggled. “What're you reading?” she asked, nodding at his desk.

“Just some reports from Amaranthine.” Getting into the specifics would lead to questions. Questions about Anders. And Garrett really wasn't in the mood to lie to his sister about his romantic entanglements.

Bethany didn't press, fortunately. “Don't stay up too late,” she said, standing. “You can't avoid the Fade forever.”

Garrett smiled up at her as she walked over. “You sound like Father,” he said as she leaned down to kiss his cheek.

Bethany's answering smile turned sad. “Not as much as you do,” she replied. “Good night.”

“Night.” Garrett watched her leave, a sudden wave of loneliness settling over him. The house felt so empty with two instead of three. But it had felt empty even with three instead of five. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, idly wondering what Father and Mother would have thought about all of this. His lips quirked up in a smile. Father would have liked feeling safe, being able to use their magic freely. And Mother would have liked being able to go to a fancy party every now and then. She'd have liked Anders, too. They both would have.

Garrett groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd finish reading this report, then he was going to bed. He needed to stop thinking for a while.

Hours later, Garrett started awake, blinking into the darkness as he tried to figure out what had woken him. The floorboards in the hall creaked; maybe Bethany had just gotten up for a drink. He'd just resettled into his pillow when the door eased open. Garrett sat up, easing a hand out from under the blankets as he prepared to cast a spell. Bethany would have knocked--

“Hi.” Anders eased the door shut behind him and squinted into the darkness. “Oh, good, right room. That would've been awkward.”

Garrett gaped at him as he carefully stumbled across the room. “How did you get  _in_ ?” he finally asked.

“Back door's open.” Anders plopped down on the bed, close enough that Garrett could see his disheveled robes, smell the cheap ale and cheaper perfume. “Or was. I locked it.” He smiled, clearly proud of himself.

Garrett gritted his teeth. “And what are you doing here?”

The smile vanished, and Anders looked away. “Got kicked outta one bed already tonight,” he muttered, shrugging. “Thought I'd try my luck here.”

“So I get your sloppy seconds?” Garrett sneered.

Anders smirked and leaned in, sliding one hand up Garrett's thigh. “I may be many things,” he breathed, “but  _sloppy_ has never been one of them--”

Garrett grabbed Anders by the shoulders and pulled him onto to the bed, rolling them over so he pinned the other man down, then captured Anders's mouth in a harsh kiss. Anders groaned, arching his body up against Garrett, and dragged his nails down Garrett's bare back. Garrett growled and ducked his head to Anders's throat, grateful that the darkness would hide the bruises left by whoever had been there before him. Well, the darkness and the ridiculously high collar on the other man's robes.

“Don'--” Garrett yanked at the collar, ripping it halfway off. Anders sighed. “Well, at least this wasn't my favorite--” He cut off with a low moan as Garrett bit his neck, almost hard enough to draw blood. Garrett rolled their hips together, stifling his own groan against Anders's skin. He slid his hands down the other man's sides, grimacing when his fingers trailed across belts already half undone and hanging loose, then tugged at the cloth in a wordless demand for removal.

Anders worked his hands between them and shoved at Garrett's chest. Garrett pushed himself up on his knees and tugged off the loose pants that he slept in, while Anders stripped out of his robes and kicked his boots to the floor. As soon as they were both out of their clothes, Anders dragged Garrett back down, crushing their mouths together in kiss that was more teeth and biting than anything. He trailed a hand along Garrett's ribs, lightning sparking from his fingers.

Garrett hissed between his teeth and grabbed Anders's wrists, pinning them to the bed above his head in one hand. Anders let out a choked gasp, his eyes fluttering shut as he tipped his head back. With a low growl, Garrett ground their hips together and went after Anders's throat again. They moved against each other, clumsy and without rhythm, quiet gasps muffled against skin. “And you said you weren't sloppy,” Garrett muttered as Anders let out a frustrated breath and shifted position.

“You started it,” Anders retorted and hooked his leg around Garrett's. “You could've-- oh, _fuck_ , yes, like that, holy Andraste...”

Garrett smirked and ground down again, the bed creaking quietly, while Anders panted and writhed under him. Anders's movements turned erratic, his wrists twisting in Garrett's grip; his breath caught, and he bit down on his lip to silence himself when he came. Garrett let go of Anders and stroked himself, spilling over his hand with a muffled groan. He stayed there like that for a few moments, his head bent towards Anders, both of them breathing hard. Then he rolled over, wiping his hand on the side of the bed with a faint grimace.

Anders sighed but didn't move. Garrett glanced over to find the other man staring at him, eyes glinting in the dim moonlight. “So, do I get to stay?” Anders finally asked, voice thick with bitterness. “Or should I go and see if I can manage a third?”

Garrett's jaw twitched. Just another notch in Anders's bedpost, that's all he was. “You can stay if you want,” he said, because it was easier than making the decision himself. “Just make sure you're gone before Bethany wakes up.”

Anders's smile was a twisted, mirthless thing. “Of course,” he said. “Wouldn't want to shame you in front of the family.” He rolled over, his back to Garrett, and tugged the blanket up to his shoulders.

Garrett stared at him, chest tight with sudden guilt. He started to reach out to Anders, his hand hovering uselessly in the space between them, then drew it back. With a sigh, he buried his face in his pillow and tried to convince himself to sleep.

When he woke up the next morning, Anders was gone, rumpled blankets and stained sheets the only indication that he'd been there at all. Garrett stared at the empty space in the bed beside him, then shook his head. It'd probably be best if he did his work at home for a while.

*

_2 Kingsway 9:32 Dragon_

Anders stared out the library window, gazing down at the practice fields. Zevran and Sigrun had been sparring on and off for the past ten minutes or so, stopping every so often to compare fighting styles, while Nathaniel flirted with Bethany under the guise of archery lessons. Lucky for her that Garrett had been avoiding the Keep lately.

He scowled and turned back to his book. Maker only knew why he kept putting up with Garrett. Probably because he was always  _ there _ , in his office or his house or the dining hall. It was like the Circle-- you couldn't avoid someone after you'd shagged them. But in the Circle, he'd been careful not to care what his partners thought of him. With Garrett, though...

“If it's that bad, why are you reading it?”

Anders jumped at the sound of Neria's voice. “Andraste's knickerweasels, Nery,” he muttered. “You almost killed me.”

She grinned. “Sorry,” she said, unrepentant. “What're you reading?”

He glanced at the book. “I don't even know,” he admitted. “What brings you here?”

“Research.” Neria nodded at the bookshelves. “Just like old times, hm?”

“Yep.” Anders paused. “Well, except there aren't any Templars. Or stuffy enchanters. Or Tranquil. And we can go outside. And--”

“You know, you're very annoying when you decide to be literal,” Neria interrupted, the smirk on her face taking an edge off her words. Anders stuck his tongue out at her; she responded in kind. “Want to help me find books?” she asked, once they'd finished being children at each other. “I'm trying to track down maps or records of Kal'Hirol.” Anders blanched, and Neria continued quickly. “You're not going,” she said. “Flames,  _ I'm _ not going-- too much to do here. I'm having Sigrun lead a group down there to make sure it's clear of darkspawn. There've been a few reports of random sightings in the area."

Anders shrugged and closed his book. “I'm not sure how much help I'll actually be,” he said, “but I'm happy to stand around and look pretty while you read.”

“You can get things off the high shelves, too,” she said, leading him into the stacks. 

He chuckled. “It's so nice to be needed.”

“Oh, and if I get a papercut--”

“Shush.” Anders leaned against a bookshelf and grinned. “I refuse to use my vast and incredible powers to heal a papercut.”

Neria ran her finger along the books, eying the titles. “Yet you'll use them to give people a nice little zap during sex,” she said. “I like your priorities.”

“I knew you would.” He smirked. “Speaking of sex, I'm surprised you and Zevran managed to detach for any length of time.”

She chuckled. “Well, we can't be doing each other constantly. Not after the first day, anyway.” She paused and glanced over at him. “By the way, I'm out of rejuvenation potions.”

Anders rolled his eyes. “That's not what those are for!”

“Oh, you used rejuvenation spells like that all the time.”

“A spell is different,” he said. “Potions have ingredients and take time--”

“Well, I don't know any creation spells, so we had to make do with what was at hand.” Neria tugged a book off the shelf and handed it to Anders. “I'll have Sigrun's group pick up some more deep mushrooms for you when they're in Kal'Hirol.”

“Thank you.” Anders glanced down at the book. “ _ A History of the Fourth Blight.  _ Ugh, Genitivi? Maker, I hated reading his books.”

“I met him,” she said. “He's actually quite nice.”

“But his books are so  _ boring _ .”

She grinned. “Was it that the books were boring, or that there were more interesting things for you to think about in history class?”

Anders smiled faintly. It had been long enough that the pain of that loss had faded to a dull ache. It had been almost eight years since Karl had been sent to Kirkwall, a little more than six since he'd gotten a letter. He'd heard stories about the Kirkwall Circle-- the Gallows, and wasn't that a name that just inspired confidence and joy-- but he told himself that the letters had stopped coming because Karl had moved on with his life. He was fine, or as fine as one could be in a Circle. “I still almost failed the class, you know.”

“Because you were sleeping with the teacher instead of doing your homework, and Karl didn't give you a free pass just because he'd bent you over a desk.” Neria nodded sagely. “That was  _ your _ fault.” 

“How would you even know what I was getting bent over?” Anders asked. “You were, what, twelve?”

“Thirteen,” she replied. “Rumors spread fast, and you two weren't as stealthy as you thought.” She handed Anders another book, this one caked in dust.

Anders wrinkled his nose and held the books away from his body, trying to keep from getting his robes dirty. “Ah, well. At least the Templars never caught us.”

“True.” Neria stepped back and peered up at the top shelf, squinting to read the titles. “Can you get me that one?” she asked, pointing. Anders frowned at the books, then tucked them against his side and reached up. “No, no, next to it-- there.” Neria beamed as he handed her the book; she flipped it open and skimmed through the table of contents, then nodded and handed it back to him.

Anders let out an aggrieved sigh. “I didn't realize I'd be playing pack mule for you,” he said.

“It's better than brooding in the window seat, right?”

“I was not brooding. I don't brood.”

“Moping, then?” Neria shrugged. “I thought brooding sounded more dignified.”

Anders sighed and followed her around the end of one set of shelves. “I wasn't moping, either.”

She snorted. “Anders, you were glaring at the book so hard, I'm surprised it didn't burst into flames,” she said. “What's going on? Hawke still being an idiot?”

“How did you-- never mind.” Anders exhaled heavily. “Yes, he is.”

Neria shook her head. “Thought so. What's he done now?”

“I-- It's complicated.” He huffed out a weak laugh. “And frustrating. I can't figure out what he wants from me. Most of the time he's pushing me away, but then sometimes it gets back to how things were and... I don't know.” Neria turned to look at him, her brow creased in concern, and he continued quickly. “It's not that important, though. I can always find other people to entertain me.”

She folded her arms, her research apparently forgotten, and stared at him with open sympathy. “Anders, this isn't the Circle,” she said. “It took me a while to get used to it, but it's okay to get attached to people. To care about them.”

“I care about people,” Anders replied.

“You know what I mean.” Neria shook her head, braids swishing slightly with the gesture. “Look, I made a lot of mistakes with Zev early on. I mean, so did he-- neither of us was exactly good at this whole 'relationship' business, but... oh, I don't know. Just don't give up on things with him, all right?” She gave him a small smile. “You two seemed really happy for a while.”

Anders shrugged. “I-I don't know. If can I work out what's going on in his head, then we'll see.”

Neria reached out and squeezed his arm. “I'm going to be sending him back into Amaranthine in a few days,” she said. “Think having him out of your hair for a little while will help one of you get your head on straight?”

“Not likely,” Anders said, smiling. “But I'll give it a shot.”

“Good.” She glanced up over his head and pointed. “Oh! Can you get me that book up there?”

*

_7 Kingsway 9:32 Dragon_

It had been over a month since Garrett had been to Amaranthine-- the longest he'd been away from the city since he'd stepped onto the docks two years ago. The trip had been quieter, last time, much less crowded despite what had been waiting for them. It was encouraging to see wagons full of stone and timber rolling towards the city for repairs. Maker only knew where Surana was getting the coin to pay for everything, but so far, Woolsey hadn't complained about the state of the treasury.

The watchtowers of Amaranthine came into view over the trees, and Garrett sighed in relief. The weather was pleasant enough, but it was still a long hike between the Vigil and the city. With his target in sight, he started walking faster, and almost missed the splash of red off to the side, standing out amid the brown and dull green. Garrett frowned and stepped off the dirt road to peer at the thick parchment nailed to a tree. The red-and-gold sun of the Chantry took up most of the parchment, and underneath it, the words _Transfigurations 1:2_ were printed in large, dark letters. 

Garrett frowned. Transfigurations was the one that dealt with magic, he was pretty sure of that, but he didn't know chapter and verse. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then yanked the flier down. He folded it up and tucked it into his pocket before continuing toward the city. Hopefully he'd be able to find out what the verse meant without attracting attention. Garrett grimaced. Not knowing the Chant tended to earn suspicious looks, he'd learned.

The city walls looked the same, but that was about all that had survived the siege intact on this side of the barricades. Most of the houses had been destroyed in the fighting, and the very soil around the city was tainted, barren of life and streaked with oily black veins. Garrett gave them a wide berth as he headed to the gates. He needed to make the rounds, check in with his regular contacts, see if Sorcha had anything new for him about the Templars, track down who had made the flier, and hopefully visit Aveline. He exhaled heavily and turned towards the market. It was as good a place to start as any.

Hours later, Garrett climbed the steps into the merchant's quarter, squinting into the setting sun. His contacts had been scarce today, many of them too busy to talk or just altogether missing. A few had outright ignored him. Not a good sign, especially when he couldn't figure out if it was personal or professional. Personal was one thing, but if he was losing people because of his work for the arlessa... that was another problem entirely.

Hopefully he'd have better luck with the printer. Garrett pushed open the door and stepped inside, glancing around the small, warm space. “With you in a minute,” the printer called from somewhere behind the shelves.

“No rush,” he replied, adopting a broad, empty smile.

Something heavy clanged into place, and a few seconds later, a dwarf with greying hair came up to the counter. “Something I can do for you, ser?” he asked.

“Just curious about the Chantry posters,” Garrett said. “Did you print them?”

He nodded. “Expensive job, that,” he said. “All that red ink.” He grinned. “They came out nice, though, don't you think?”

Garrett nodded. “Oh, yes, quite lovely. And inspiring. Did the Chantry here have them printed, or...?”

“I'll have to take your word for it on the inspiration,” the dwarf said. “I don't know your Chant. But yes, the priests commissioned them. One of the women came by with a couple Templars-- for protection, I guess.” He snorted “Religious types are so scared of the world.”

“Mm. Well, I'll have to pay them a visit, discuss the message further,” Garrett said, already backing towards the door. “Thank you for your time.” He stepped out onto the street and scrubbed a hand over his face. Officially sanctioned, then. Maybe that verse was one about accepting and loving mages as equal creations of the Maker. He was pretty sure that no such verse existed, but he had to hope.

With a sigh, he shoved his hands in his pockets and set out for the barracks. He hadn't seen Aveline out on patrol during the day, which probably meant she had a night shift; with any luck, he'd be able to talk to her before she left. He bounded up the stairs to the barracks, frowning slightly at the unfamiliar guard sitting by the door. “Is Aveline around?”

“Mm?” The guard glanced up. “Oh. Yeah, she should be. Go on in.”

Garrett nodded, wondering what had happened to the woman who'd always been at the door in the past. Probably died in the assault, he thought, and shook his head. He didn't even remember her name.

“Hawke?” Aveline caught sight of him and walked over, clanging slightly. “What are you doing here?”

He plastered on a bright smile. “I can't come visit my favorite guard?” he asked.

“Not when it takes you eight hours to get here, no,” she replied with a faint grin. “What do you need?”

“Just checking in, seeing how things are going.”

Aveline folded her arms and arched an eyebrow. “Officially or unofficially?”

“Ah... both?”

She sighed and nodded at a nearby bench. “We're barely scraping by,” she said, taking a seat. Garrett perched on the edge, glancing around the barracks. They did seem emptier. “Things were bad before the assault, but now...” She looked around, following Garrett's gaze. “I don't even what to think about what would have happened if the arlessa hadn't shown up when she did.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, voice tight, as guilt coiled in his stomach. He'd made the decision to abandon her, even if he hadn't actually gone through with it. “Any luck with recruiting farther out?”

“There's no one left to recruit,” she said. “We've been reduced to begging the Chantry to loan us Templars to fill out our patrols.” Garrett made a face; Aveline shrugged. “Speaking of the Chantry...”

He sighed. “If this is about those dead Templars, I don't--”

“It's not,” she said. “Well, not directly, anyway.” She looked down, tugging at a gauntlet. “I'm not one for sermons, but I've heard talk in the barracks. Mother Eleanor's been preaching about the threat of Imperial magisters lately, how dangerous mages who flout the Chantry's laws are. Nothing's been said explicitly, but...”

“It doesn't have to be.” Garrett closed his eyes for a moment. “She saved the arling from the darkspawn less than a month ago. They've already turned on her?”

Aveline shrugged. “People have short memories, Hawke,” she said. “And mages are a more familiar fear than darkspawn.”

“Yeah.” He sighed, then pulled the flier out of his pocket. “You seen this around?” Aveline nodded. “I don't supposed you know the verse?”

She frowned, thinking. “'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,'” she recited. “I know that's how it starts.”

Garrett stared at the paper. “Son of a bitch.”

“I heard what happened during the attack,” Aveline said, and Garrett's head snapped up. “She wanted to save Amaranthine when even our own captain thought it was lost. I still don't know what I think about the mess with the Templars, but she's earned _my_ trust. The Chantry's not so forgiving, though.”

“I know.” Garrett tucked the flier away and shook his head. “Damn. Guess I'm riding back to the Keep tonight.”

They stood, and Aveline put a hand on his arm. “Be careful, Hawke,” she said, her green eyes intent on his. “They've got the protection of the Wardens to hide behind. You and Bethany don't.”

“You don't have to remind me.” He smiled grimly. “Thanks. For everything.” 

“Anytime.” Aveline squeezed his arm, then let go. “Safe journey, Hawke.”


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Hand injury in the first scene.

_13 Kingsway 9:32 Dragon_

Anders paced across his room, wall to window to wall, then abruptly sat down on the edge of his bed, leg bouncing and hands fidgeting in his lap. Pounce pawed at him, mewing in concern—or in frustration, more likely, since Anders wouldn’t stay in one place long enough for cuddling. “Sorry,” Anders murmured, scratching Pounce’s head.

He glanced at the door and swallowed hard. A priest and three Templars had come to the keep to speak with Neria about the Chantry’s concerns and interests in the arling. It was a perfectly ordinary thing, for representatives of the faith to speak with their leader, especially after a disaster like the darkspawn attack. Perfectly ordinary, save for the fact that the leader in question was a mage, and she was harboring an accused murderer.

Anders rubbed his hands together and glanced at the satchel sitting by the door. He could run. Disappear again. He was so close to the Waking Sea, it’d be easy enough to find a ship going anywhere else. And once he was outside of Ferelden it’d be almost impossible for the Templars to find him. But if he ran, that’d be as good as admitting responsibility. They’d believe him guilty of killing all nine Templars. He’d really just been adjacent to their deaths, and it had been self-defense. Except mages didn’t get self-defense, especially not from Templars; they were supposed to submit and bow and scrape and accept whatever fate was given to them…

“Dammit.” Anders bounced up off the bed and started pacing again. He was going crazy here, alone with his thoughts. But everyone else was happily going about their day while Neria and the Templars had tea and discussed his right to continue living. Garrett and Bethany had vanished, holed up in their house to wait out the Templars. Even with the accusations of murder and blood magic hanging over his head, Anders knew he was still safer than they were. He was a Warden. They were just apostates.

A knock at the door nearly made him jump out of his skin. He spun around, eyes wide and heart pounding. Templars didn’t knock, he told himself, they just kicked in the door and dragged you away. Unless they wanted to give him the option of surrendering peacefully? They never had before; they’d always smote him, cuffed him, kicked him while he was down.

“Anders?” Justice called. “Are you there?”

Anders let out a heavy sigh, wavering in place as he relaxed, and walked over to open the door. “Maker, I’m glad it’s you,” he said.

Justice tilted his head to the side slightly. “Thank you,” he said, a bit uncertain. “I wanted to speak with you about this body. Sigrun told me you were hiding up here?”

“Just staying out of the Templars’ sight,” Anders said, stepping aside and gesturing for Justice to come in. It took considerable effort not to gag at the smell; he’d dealt with some unfortunate odors in his time as a healer, but a rotting corpse was by far the worst. Pounce sniffed the air once and dove under the bed. “You’d be better off avoiding them too, you know.”

“The Commander told me as much.” Justice stood by the window and folded his arms. “Though she did not explain why.”

Anders shrugged. “The Templars aren’t big on nuance,” he said. “They’d see a walking corpse and assume you were a demon. And that wouldn’t end well for anyone.”

“They see evil everywhere they look,” Justice said, shaking his head. “There is such beauty and goodness here, yet all they speak of is the potential for evil.”

“You’ve been in our world for a few months and you’ve already got a better understanding of the situation than most people get in their lifetimes,” Anders said with a grin. He nodded at Justice. “What’d you want to ask me about?”

Justice unfolded his arms and pulled off his left gauntlet, then held up his hand. His middle and ring fingers were gone, ragged bits of flesh remaining around the empty, bloodless sockets. “They came off,” Justice said, turning the gauntlet around to show Anders, who was trying to keep his disgust from showing too obviously. Despite being a spirit and a corpse, Justice was still a patient. It was bad form to let a patient see how horrifying their condition was.

That being said, this was _really_ pushing it.

“Is... Is it uncomfortable?” Anders asked finally.

Justice shook his head. “It is inconvenient,” he said. “I cannot manipulate those fingers now. It makes holding my shield more difficult.”

“Yeah.” Anders rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I, uh. I'm afraid there isn't much I can do. Healing magic only works on living bodies, and if they-- detached,” he swallowed hard, “the tissue is going to be too weak for stitches.” He'd already had to sew a few pieces of Justice back together, tears in his skin that couldn't heal.

“I see.” Justice looked at his hand and frowned.

“You'll, uh, just have to make do, I guess.” Anders grimaced. “Sorry.”

Justice nodded and replaced the gauntlet, and Anders tried very hard not to think about the loose fingers rotting away inside the metal. “This will continue,” Justice said, almost a question. “This body is decaying.”

Anders sighed and sat down on his bed. “Yeah,” he said. “Magic can only do so much.”

The spirit fiddled with his gauntlet, an oddly human gesture. “Nathaniel once asked if I would consider switching bodies,” he said. “As Kristoff's will eventually be naught but bones.”

Anders shrugged. “He's got a point. Although it would just sort of be a temporary fix. You'd have to keep jumping from corpse to corpse.”

“And each body would hold the memories of the person who was within it before their death,” Justice said. “I have... struggled to understand the experiences of one life. What would become of me with so many more?”

“It could be useful,” Anders said with a grin. “You could possess a woman next and tell us what they're thinking!” Justice regarded him with mild bemusement; Anders waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Never mind. Moving on. Do you have any better ideas?”

Justice was silent for a few moments. “Nathaniel also asked if I would consider possessing a living person,” he finally said.

Anders's eyebrows shot up. “Um, no offense, and I know you're very touchy about the demon thing, but that? Sounds like what a demon would do.”

“That is what I said to him,” Justice said. “But if the person were willing to accept me... perhaps together, we could accomplish more than as individuals.”

Anders shifted in place. “Offering a mortal your powers in exchange for a host body still doesn't sound _good_ , Justice.” He exhaled heavily. “What would you want to do?”

“Fight injustice.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “There's a lot of injustice in the world. You might have to narrow it down, or you'll never get past 'this pillow is too soft' or 'the price of ale is too high.'”

“Those are inconveniences, not injustices,” Justice said. “There are so many oppressed in your world. Mages, especially, suffer grievously-- you know this. You have lived it.”

Anders looked away. “Living it right now,” he muttered.

“Precisely.” Justice gestured at the door. “You must waste hours of your life hidden in your room for fear that the Templars will punish you for crimes that you are innocent of.”

“I'm a free mage,” Anders said. “That's crime enough, dead Templars or no.”

Justice shook his head. “But that is my point. How the Chantry treats you, treats all mages, is wrong. It is a grave injustice. And it cannot continue.”

Anders snorted and shook his head. “Well, good luck with that. I'm sure you'll be able to tear down a nine-hundred-year old institution and convince everyone that mages are soft and cuddly in no time.”

“I cannot hope to accomplish such a thing alone,” Justice said. “I would require the aid of free mages, such as yourself.”

“Here's the thing, Justice,” Anders replied, leaning back on his elbows. “I don't wanna die. That's the whole point of this, avoiding the Templars, joining the Wardens. It means I get to live another day.”

“You have your freedom.” Justice narrowed his eyes at Anders. “And the purpose of freedom is to create it for others. You have an obligation--”

“By the Void I do!” Anders sat up abruptly. “I don't owe the collective mages of Thedas _anything_. I escaped on my own, without their help. In fact, most of them told me that I deserved what I got when the Templars caught me.” He shook his head. “Fighting the Chantry is only going to end with me dead. And I'm not sacrificing myself for-- for 'the plight of mages.' I earned my freedom and I damn well intend to enjoy it.”

“You spend your freedom cowering in fear of your oppressors,” Justice snapped, “and leave others to suffer at their hands in your selfishness.” He stomped to the door in a clatter of armor.

Anders winced. Even a self-righteous spirit was better than being alone right now. “Wait, wait,” he said, grabbing Justice’s arm as gently as possible. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally pull it off. Justice stopped and glowered at him. “Look, you’re asking for a lot, here,” Anders said. “You might be able to spend your days thinking about nothing but injustice, but us mortals tend to have other concerns.”

Justice turned around. “What could be more important than fighting oppression?”

Well, that was a loaded question. Anders sighed. “Not more _important,_ but more… immediate? I worry about my patients and my friends and my cat a lot more than fighting the Chantry.”

“That seems selfish.”

“Yeah, well… that’s life, spirit.” Anders shrugged, feeling inexplicably guilty. There was nothing wrong with living his life and enjoying his freedom. “Maybe we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

Justice frowned. “It is still an injustice for some to walk free while others suffer in oppression.”

“I agree. I just don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

The spirit nodded, looking away. “You have given me much to think about,” he said, moving toward the door again.

Anders sighed but made no move to stop him this time. “Look, about your body,” he said. “I can do some research, see if there’s something you could move into that won’t rot quite so much.” Like a golem, or a tree. He fought back a smirk at the idea of a Tree of Justice.

“Thank you,” Justice said, inclining his head slightly. “I appreciate it.”

He stepped out into the hallway and shut the door behind him. Anders glanced around his room and shuddered, momentarily overwhelmed by a feeling of being trapped. He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the window, leaning his forehead against the glass. He could see outside. He could leave whenever he wanted. It was just safer to wait until the Templars were gone…

Anders swallowed hard, fingers wrapped around the windowsill in a white-knuckled grip. It was the Circle all over again. Always thinking of how the Templars would react before he did _anything_. “To the Void with this,” he muttered and pushed away from the window. They wouldn’t go up to the library, and he had research to do.

*

_15 Kingsway 9:32 Dragon_

“Can anyone here explain to me,” Surana said, slumped in her chair and staring down the papers and maps scattered across the table, “why I can’t simply tell the Chantry to shove their accusations up their collective sanctimonious asses?”

Garrett shrugged. “I’m not opposed to the idea.” They’d been discussing the various crises facing the arling for the past two hours. The Chantry’s continued suspicion of the Wardens was the latest in a long list of impending disasters.

“Having something up there might get them to relax,” Zevran added with a lazy grin. “I’m in favor.”

Varel heaved a sigh and covered his face with his hand, looking for all the world like a man who’d been dealing with rambunctious teenagers for the last hour. “The Chantry has almost as much power as you do, Commander,” he explained wearily. “And a substantial private army. You _have_ to deal with them.”

Surana smirked. “I know, I know.” She shook her head. “They still don’t know what to make of Rylock’s death, but the Revered Mother is certain that Anders is responsible for the deaths of his Templar captors.”

“Is he?” Zevran asked, casually tracing patterns on the table.

“No,” Garrett replied, at the same time Surana said “Sort of.” Garrett frowned at her; she shrugged. “From what he told me, he didn’t attack them, but he also didn’t help defend them against the darkspawn,” Surana continued. “Given the way they treated him, expecting his assistance was a bit foolish on their parts, but the Templars don’t often have much sense when it comes to mages.”

Zevran waved a hand dismissively. “Then they have no reason to charge him with anything,” he said.

“Unfortunately, he’s a mage, and they’re Templars,” Surana said. “And the life of a Templar is _always_ going to be more valuable.”

“And their death always a greater crime,” Garrett agreed. He scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d be damned if he let the Templars drag Anders away. “You conscripted him, right? Don’t they have to respect the Warden laws or whatever?”

Surana shrugged. “They’re supposed to,” she agreed. “But it’s not a guarantee.”

Silence fell over the room. “Would it help if I killed someone?” Zevran offered after a few minutes.

“No,” Varel said into his hand.

“Don’t tempt me,” Surana muttered.

Zevran grinned. “I thought that’s why you kept me around, _mi amor_.”

“We got into this mess because people were killed,” Varel said. “More dead bodies aren’t going to help.”

“On that, we will have to respectfully disagree,” Zevran said with a wink. “But we will do things your way.”

Surana sighed. “I guess at this point I’ll just keep throwing the Warden treaties out in front of them and hope that Anora actually replies to my letter this time,” she said. “I’m starting to get the sense she’s been ignoring me.”

“You did have her father executed,” Zevran pointed out. “That isn’t going to win you many points.”

“I also put the crown on her head.” Surana frowned. “Not to mention that whole ‘stopped the Blight’ business. She owes me.”

Garrett snorted. “So do the people of Amaranthine,” he said. “Look how quickly they’ve turned.”

She groaned and leaned her elbows on the table. “What do you have for me, Hawke?” she asked, massaging her temples.

He tugged his stack of papers out from under the map of the arling. “Not much in the way of good news, I’m afraid,” he said. “The Chantry’s been quite effective in turning people against you. They’re setting you up as some kind of Imperial magister just waiting for the chance to start stealing people’s children and drinking their blood.”

Surana blinked. “Really?”

“Well. Not explicitly. But my contacts in the city say that there have been a lot more sermons and lectures on the dangers of Tevinter and blood magic lately.”

“Wonderful,” she muttered.

Garrett shuffled through his papers. “The nobility’s starting to be swayed,” he said. “They’re questioning whether or not you’re even eligible to hold power.”

“Why?” she asked. “Mage, elf, or Warden?”

“Warden, mostly,” he replied. “But the mage thing has come up as well. There are laws against both Wardens and mages holding titles, and while the queen can technically overrule them…”

“It looks bad to the nobility,” Varel finished.

Surana straightened up. “Anyone in particular?” she asked.

“Some of the usual suspects, Esmerelle’s sympathizers,” Garrett said. “Lady Packton, Bann Orfeld. But we’re even losing some of our allies. Four of Lord Raeburn’s knights have joined the Templars in the past two weeks.”

Varel grimaced. “That’s not a good sign.”

“No.” Garrett pulled out another paper. “And I had a letter from Orfeld intercepted… it was addressed to a Ser Jadawck in Ostwick. Talked about moving cargo, but I know he doesn’t have any shipping interests there. It seemed strange.”

Zevran had gone very still. “Do you have the letter?” he asked, voice even.

“I had it copied. We had to send it on to avoid suspicion,” Garrett said, sliding the paper across the table.

Zevran skimmed over it, brow furrowed, and sighed. “I’m sorry, _amor_ ,” he murmured, looking up at Surana with a sad smile. “I’m afraid I will have to take my leave of you yet again.”

She closed her eyes and nodded. Garrett frowned. “Why?”

“Jadawck isn’t a person,” Zevran said. “It’s an anagram for jackdaw. Which is--”

“A type of crow,” Garrett finished with a groan. “I should have seen that.”

Zevran shrugged. “You’re not used to looking for the Crows everywhere you turn,” he said. “Spend a few years in Antiva and you’d see them in every shadow.”

“When did you intercept this?” Varel asked. “Should we be expecting another attempt?”

“Not quite yet, I don’t think,” Zevran replied, glancing at the letter again. “They’re early in the stages of negotiation. I would be able to follow the letters up to whatever Master is handling the job and… deal with all involved parties before they ever reached Fereldan shores.” He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of dramatic battles in the throne room, hm?”

“But I’m so very good at the dramatic battles,” Surana said with a smirk. She glanced up at the abrupt knock at the door. “Enter.”

A servant slipped into the room. “Beg pardon, sers,” he said and looked straight at Garrett. “Captain Garavel told me to tell you right away-- they've caught one of those blood mages, ser.” He shivered slightly. “They're holding her in the dungeons.”

“Thank you,” Garrett said, then glanced back at Surana. “Should I--”

“Go,” she said, waving her hands at him. “Maybe getting rid of some _actual_ blood mages will get the Chantry to back off a bit?”

He pushed back from the table and shook his head. “Will the personal griffon mounts arrive just after that, then?”

Surana snorted and rolled her eyes at him as he left. Garrett made his way to the courtyard, mulling over his options. Garavel was waiting for him outside the dungeon. “We found her and a few companions on the road,” the captain explained without preamble and pushed open the door. “They'd killed a deer and were doing... something... with the blood.”

“Mm.” Garrett followed him down the dark, narrow staircase. Another four guards were posted outside the cell. The woman was bound and gagged, wrists and ankles chained together, glaring spitefully at the room. The sleeves of her shirt had been pushed up to accommodate the manacles, and when Garrett came to stop outside her cell, he could see the half-healed cuts up and down her arms. “I'll handle it,” he said without turning. The woman turned her silent glower on him; he met it with a level stare.

The captain paused. “Ser, are you--”

“I'm quite certain.”

Garavel sighed. “You heard the man,” he muttered. “Clear the room.”

Garrett waited until the sound of clanking armor disappeared behind a slammed door some fifteen feet overhead. Then he turned away from the cell, moving away a few paces to grab a simple wooden chair. He dragged it over and set it near the bars, then sat down and folded his arms over his chest. He and the prisoner stared at each other for several long seconds before he spoke. “Here's my problem with you,” he began, stretching his legs out in front of him, the soles of his boots almost touching the steel bars. “You're making us look bad. Free mages, I mean.”

The woman's eyes went wide. Garrett smirked and held up a hand, calling on just enough mana to let ice swirl around his fingers. “Going around and kidnapping people, blood sacrifices-- you're not even the kind of blood mage I could make an excuse for, the 'oh, they were just desperate' ones. Not that I especially buy that line, anyway, what with what the arlessa's told me about that little incident in the Circle.” He ended the spell and dropped his hand, frowning a bit when his frigid fingers touched his skin. “The Chantry says you should be executed, and for once, I agree with them. You've killed people for no reason other than your own power. That's disgusting.”

He counted to thirty in his head, letting the woman stew a bit. Her glare was back, and the chains clanked slightly as she shifted in place. “The arlessa, however, thinks you deserve a second chance. Apparently she knew a few people who turned blood magic in the Tower, and she's quite a bit more forgiving than I am. So. I need to know where your friends are. I'd like to be able to ask you 'Where's your base?' and just have you answer, but then I'd have to take off the gag, and you'd probably bite your tongue and bleed and start casting, and we just can't _have_ that sort of nonsense.”

Garrett smiled brightly and settled back into his chair. “So instead, we're gonna play hot-cold! I'll say a place, and you nod if I'm closer, shake your head if I'm farther from your base. Sound good?”

She said something through the gag. Garrett couldn't quite understand it, but it sounded unkind. “Look, you cooperate, and you get to choose where we deport you to. You stonewall me, and the only trip you're taking is going to end in a short drop and a sudden stop.” He paused for a moment. “Amaranthine City.”

*

_19 Kingsway 9:32 Dragon_

Caves. It was always caves. Anders glared up at the rocky ceiling overhead, the spellwisp floating over his shoulder pulsing a bit brighter. If he'd known that being a Grey Warden was going to involve so much time in small, dark spaces, he'd have... well, he'd still have joined, what with being conscripted and all, but he'd probably have complained about it a lot more. It would have led him to the same place, though: sneaking through caverns with Nathaniel, the Hawke brothers, and a handful of soldiers to take out the leaders of the local blood mage population.

“Would you put that out?” Carver hissed, gesturing at the wisp. “The point of an ambush is _stealth_.”

Anders glared at him. “Carver,” Garrett growled, eyes narrowed at his brother. “Shut it.”

Carver scowled and fell back to walk with the other soldiers. Garrett glowered after his brother; as soon as he noticed Anders watching him, though, he looked away, striding ahead to lead them down the tunnel. Anders sighed. He wasn't sure who was responsible for assembling the team for this little jaunt, but whoever it was had to be an absolute idiot to put Carver under Garrett's command.

“What'd you do to him?” Nathaniel murmured from Anders's right.

Which one, Anders thought. He shrugged. “I didn't do a _thing_ to Lieutenant Stick-Up-His-Ass back there.”

Nathaniel huffed out a quiet laugh and shook his head before ghosting away up the tunnel. He spoke to Garrett briefly, then disappeared into the darkness, presumably to scout ahead. The rest of them continued down through the cavern, the silence broken only by soft footsteps and the muffled clink of armor. Anders kept his arms close to his sides, trying to ignore the fact that if he stretched them out, he could brush his fingers against the walls. Much as he disliked life-threatening situations in general, he _really_ wished they'd just find these blood mages so they could deal with them and go home.

Several minutes passed before Nathaniel reappeared, stepping out of the shadows at Garrett's side. Garrett stopped walking and held up a hand; the rest of the group paused while they spoke, Nathaniel's hand on Garrett's shoulder and his mouth dangerously close to the other man's ear. Anders dimmed the spellwisp, momentarily grateful for the darkness that hid the scowl on his face. Getting jealous didn't even make sense; Nathaniel was exclusive in his preference for women, as far as Anders knew.

Garrett straightened up and nodded, then gestured for the others to move forward. “Six in the cavern ahead,” he said, voice barely louder than a breath. Carver hissed between his teeth. “Carver, Rowan, each take a team. Carver, with me; Rowan, follow Howe to the second entrance.” His gaze flickered to Anders for a second. “You know what to do.”

Anders nodded. His job was pretty straightforward: keep everyone else from bleeding to death and throw lightning bolts when he had the chance. Beside him, Carver scowled, glaring at his brother for no discernible reason. Garrett moved aside as Nathaniel and a few soldiers crept past them. “Six?” Carver muttered. “We should come back with more men.”

“We can handle it,” Garrett replied. “Let's move.”

Carver snorted. “Famous last words,” he grumbled as Anders turned away to follow Garrett.

The gentle sound of dripping water echoed through the cavern as they drew closer to the entrance. Anders dimmed the spellwisp to a barely visible glow and slowly pulled his staff from the straps on his back. Around him, the others readied their weapons, swords and daggers and one other staff. Garrett rolled his shoulders, the blade of his staff resting against the ground, while Carver watched him impatiently. With a sigh, Garrett glanced at the three soldiers, and nodded at the cavern. “Take 'em out as soon as you hit them,” he murmured. “They can use wounds to fuel their powers.” He stepped aside and met his brother's eyes. “Go.”

Carver nodded and glanced back at the other two soldiers. Some unspoken signal passed between them, and they charged, Carver's battle cry echoing off the rocks. It was immediately swallowed by the shouts of surprise from the mages within and the cries of the other soldiers. Garrett met Anders's eyes for a second, then swung around the entrance and ran into the room himself.

Anders moved in behind him, keeping his back to the wall and his staff held across his chest. The cavern was almost too dark to see in, a pair of small campfires and the dim flash of Garrett's spells the only light. Anders concentrated for a moment, and the wisp surged with power, radiating light as he sent it flying towards the center of the cavern. It wasn't much light, but anything would help.

The soldiers had worked fast; two crumpled bodies lay on the ground, and a third had encased himself in a barrier of force. Two soldiers circled him, waiting for his mana to run out and the shield to collapse. “Back!” Garrett shouted, his body glowing as he summoned power. The soldiers backed away as Garrett raised a hand and slowly curled it into a fist. Bright lines of force appeared around the blood mage's barrier; for a second, it held, then the whole thing exploded in a shockwave, energy rippling through the air and taking the slower of the two soldiers off his feet. Before the blood mage could react, an arrow went through his throat.

Anders scanned the cavern for injuries. With no one screaming in pain or visibly bleeding, he planted his staff on the ground and half-closed his eyes, concentrating on the rest of the group, channeling energy through himself and out to them. Just enough to make their aim surer, their strikes harder, their dodges quicker. It was the edge that could mean the difference between victory and defeat.

Something roared to his left, and he opened his eyes as a burst of orange light flickered across the floor. A handful of shades and a pair of rage demons sprang from the ground in front of the blood mages. Anders sighed. It wasn't a surprise, really, but he'd rather hoped they'd be able to get out of this fight _without_ demons making an appearance.

Garrett hurled a fistful of ice at the demon closest to him; Anders followed suit, aiming a cone of cold at the rage demon. It howled as the ice thickened, freezing it in place. Carver lunged forward and slammed his sword into the demon, then let out a victorious whoop as it shattered. Anders smirked. Maybe a bit of mage-soldier teamwork would make Carver a little less cranky towards him--

The second rage demon surged out of the ground behind Carver with a roar. He'd only half-turned when it struck him, both fiery arms slamming into his chest and hurling him backwards. Anders was moving almost before Carver hit the ground. “Hold still,” he said as he dropped to his knees beside the younger man.

“I'm f--” Carver's protest died in a choked-off groan as he tried to sit up.

Anders planted a glowing hand on his chest, pinning him in place as his magic quickly sought out the injuries. No burns, somehow; apparently all that armor was actually good for something. He'd picked up a number of gashes on his head and arms, though, and Anders poured healing energy into Carver, trusting the others to keep the remaining demons away.

“That _hurts_ ,” Carver ground out.

“Hurts less than bleeding to death,” Anders replied. The injuries hadn't been that bad, truthfully, but an open wound was just another resource for a blood mage. He pulled his hands back and nodded. “There. Good enough. Go get 'em.”

Carver grabbed his sword and scrambled upright, grimacing. Anders braced himself on his staff and pushed himself to his feet--

Only to drop back to his knees again as pain shot through him. Agonizing, burning inside his skin, and it didn't stop, just kept going, searing and pulsing in time with his pounding heart. He was dimly aware of his hands hitting the ground and of his own sharp, ragged breaths, wheezing with a scream just barely trapped behind clenched teeth.

Then, abruptly, it stopped. Anders drew in a gulping lungful of air and raised his head, blinking hard against his swimming vision. Garrett kicked a body off the end of his staff, then whirled around and bolted towards Anders. Anders managed to push himself up to his knees by the time Garrett reached his side. “Are you okay?” Garrett asked, panting for breath, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

Anders nodded, wincing as Garrett helped him to his feet. “Did we win?” he asked. He was still unsteady and shaking a bit, and he let himself lean against Garrett.

“Yeah. Yeah, they're dead.” Garrett glared at the corpses on the floor.

“Oh. Good. Go team.” Anders dredged up a weak smile and leaned against his staff. “I'm fine. Go... do your spymaster thing. I'm just gonna sit down over there.”

Garrett frowned at him, searching his face, then nodded and let go of Anders's arm. He didn't move away until he seemed satisfied that Anders wasn't going to fall over again. Anders limped over to a nearby boulder and eased himself down onto it, groaning slightly at the lingering pain. “Okay,” he muttered as he leaned his head back against the wall, “maybe the Templars have _one_ thing right.”

*

_24 Kingsway 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett reached the doorway of the infirmary and hesitated. It was late. Perhaps it'd be better to leave this until morning, let Anders get a decent night of sleep... Assuming he'd had one since the Templars came prowling around. Garrett glanced at the letter in his hand and grimaced. He had to tell him.

With a sigh, he stepped inside. Anders glanced up from his patients and frowned curiously; Garrett shook his head and leaned against the wall. With a shrug, Anders turned his attention back to the woman and the young boy sitting on the cot. The woman held a bandage to the boy's nose, and his arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Anders crouched down, speaking to the boy in a low voice, and flicked a small, glowing spellwisp into the air with a flourish. The boy smiled and looked up as the wisp drifted over his head. Anders carefully placed his hands on the boy's arm, then jerked the bone back into place. Garrett winced at the sudden cry of pain, and the sobs that followed.

It didn't take long for Anders to heal the boy's arm and wrap it in a splint. “I know it's fun and all the kids are doing it, but no more climbing on roofs,” Anders advised as the woman picked up her son.

“Don't worry,” she said wearily. “He won't be going _anywhere_ near the roof anytime soon.”

Anders smiled. “Bring him back in a week and I'll make sure everything's healing properly.”

“Thank you, ser.” She said something to her son, too quiet to hear, and left the room with a quick nod at Garrett.

Garrett pushed off the wall. “Seems a bit outside your normal clientele,” he commented as he walked over.

Anders shrugged. “The soldiers are remarkably good at not getting hurt,” he said. “Honestly, I get kind of bored some days. I've got less work here than in the Circle.” He frowned. “Although I was also teaching when I was in the tower. That ate up a fair amount of time.”

The terrible news in his hand could wait. “You _taught_ classes?” Garrett asked.

“I know, right?” Anders chuckled. “I couldn't believe it either. But creation specialists are rare, and much as Irving didn't want to, he just didn't have enough healers to cover all the classes. I always got stuck with the worst ones, though. Teaching introduction to creation magic to a bunch of fifteen-year-olds who really only cared about whose fireballs were biggest and getting into each other's robes.” He sighed nostalgically. “Ah, memories.”

Garrett shook his head, grinning. “I'm just... trying to picture you as a teacher and it's just...”

“Honestly, I didn't put forth that much effort,” Anders admitted. “So long as they did the minimum amount of work required, I passed them. The kids usually liked me well enough. Some of them wrote me tawdry poetry.”

“You didn't...” Garrett trailed off and raised an eyebrow.

“When I was the teacher? No.” Anders looked away and smiled, almost fondly. “When I was the student, though... well, let's just say I was far more persuasive than anyone in any of my classes.” He shook his head slightly, then looked back at Garrett. “But I'm sure you didn't stop by to swap stories. What'd you need?”

“Ah.” Garrett glanced at the letter again. “You heard about Anora's declaration?”

Anders nodded. “Supporting Neria's position as arlessa? Yeah.”

Garrett held out the letter. “The Chantry's response.”

Anders stared at it for a moment before reaching out to take the parchment. Garrett watched as Anders read, the words playing over in his mind. _We will honor Her Majesty's decision, but we must have a leader who respects the law... the mage Anders stands accused of murder and must face justice... apostasy is a threat to the arling and cannot be tolerated..._

“When did this arrive?” Anders asked, voice eerily flat, his gaze still fixed on the letter.

“A few hours ago.” Garrett sighed. The Chantry suspected that there were more free mages than Surana and Anders. If they found out about him and Bethany...

Anders handed the letter back. His gaze darted around the room, windows to door back to windows again, and he hunched his shoulders, arms wrapped around himself. “I knew this would happen,” he muttered. “I _told_ you this would happen.”

“Anders--”

“I have to run.” Anders shook his head frantically. “I have to escape before they come for me again.”

“You're a Warden,” Garrett said. “They can't touch you.”

Anders raised his head and glared at him. “You don't _understand_ ,” he snapped. “Do you really think that matters to them? The only law the Chantry cares about is its own. If they think it's-- it's necessary, they’ll storm the Keep and drag me away in chains. They’ll kill anyone who gets in their way and they’ll think they’re doing the Maker’s will.” He shuddered, fingers digging into his arms.

Garrett took a cautious step forward. “Surana won't let that happen,” he said, then, after a moment's hesitation, “ _I_ won't let that happen.”

Anders shook his head. “You won't be able to stop them,” he said, his gaze dancing away, back to the windows. He swallowed hard and let out a harsh, bitter bark of laughter. “Death would be the best I could hope for. They—they'd send me to the Aeonar, otherwise, and I _can't_ let that happen. I can't, I'd...” Another shudder, this one far stronger, and Anders closed his eyes for a moment.

Garrett looked away. Something had happened to Anders in the Circle, something far worse than the flogging that left his back a ruined mess of scars, but the other man never spoke of it. And Garrett had never pried, never asked what happened to scare him so deeply. He glanced back at Anders. Maybe he should have. “They're not going to take you,” he said instead, the only thing he could think to say. “This isn’t the Circle. We’re not just going to stand by and let the Templars drag you off.”

“They'll kill you,” Anders half-whispered. “If you fight them, they _will_ kill you. I don't want you-- I don't want anyone dying because of me.”

“Well, I don't intend to,” Garrett replied, the words falling flat even to his own ears.

Anders snorted and looked away. “Most people don't.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. Garrett fiddled with the letter. If he thought Anders would get a fair hearing-- but he was a mage, and Templars were dead. There was no such thing as fair in that case. “I need to get home,” he said. “Beth and I are in danger, too. I need to talk to her about this.” Cutting back the live demonstrations of magic to the soldiers might not be a bad idea, at least for a while. The fewer people talking about fireballs being hurled at them, the better.

“Yeah.” Anders narrowed his eyes at the window. “Yeah, of course.” He smiled, a tense, brittle thing, and looked back at Garrett. “I'll just go to the tavern and drown my sorrows. Maybe find someone to distract me for a night.”

Garrett's hands stilled, fingers closing around the letter. “Yeah. Well. Have fun.” He nodded at Anders and walked back to the hallway, his expression carefully neutral as he shut the door behind him. “Dammit.” He had the sudden, certain feeling that he'd just royally screwed up, but damned if he knew what had gone wrong. Garrett groaned and trudged down the hallway as he silently composed his plans for the evening. Go home, talk to Bethany, pour himself a stiff bloody drink.

_29 Kingsway 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett crossed his ankles under the table and tried not to fidget. He was an adult. Twenty-five years old and the head of the family. He had no excuse for this.

“Maker’s breath, Carver, I _missed_ your cooking,” Bethany said around a mouthful of chicken.

Carver grinned and leaned back in his chair. “It’s so nice to be appreciated,” he said, and even though he kept his eyes on his sister it was clear who the comment was meant for.

Garrett sighed. So maybe he had a bit of an excuse. “It’s also so _nice_ to see you again,” he said with a broad, toothy smile. “We’d almost forgotten what you looked like.”

“You know where I’m at,” Carver said mildly. “You could have invited me anytime.”

“I didn’t realize I had to invite you home.”

Bethany exhaled sharply and kicked Garrett in the shin; going by Carver’s yelp, she got him, too. “Knock it off, you two,” she said. “Eat your delicious, delicious dinner.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you’ll still be kicking us when you’re seventy or something?” Garrett asked, leaning down to rub his bruised leg.

“Because it always works,” Bethany replied with a sweet smile.

“Oughta start wearing my greaves all the time,” Carver grumbled. “Couple of broken toes might change your tune.”

Bethany’s smile somehow managed to grow both sweeter and decidedly evil. “I’ll just aim higher, brother dear.”

Garrett snickered at the look of mild panic that crossed Carver’s face. Carver scowled at him and turned his attention back to his plate, stabbing his fork into the carrots. “So, my dearest sister, anything interesting going on in your section of the keep?” Garrett asked.

“Not since you told me I couldn't practice with the soldiers.”

Carver snorted. “That sounds familiar.”

Garrett shot a glare at him. “I said you should cut back,” he clarified. “All it takes is one disgruntled recruit to tip off the Templars, and we're on the run again.”

“Neria won't let that happen,” Bethany said firmly. “And they've already seen me casting spells for months now.”

Garrett sighed. “I just want you to be careful. The Templars--”

“I know, Garrett.” She gave him a crooked smile and shook her head. “We'll be fine. They're not going to cross the Hero of Ferelden.”

“Didn't she tell them off or something, anyway?” Carver asked, gesturing with his fork. “Martin said Garavel told him about the letter she wrote back when they started demanding that she turn in all the apostates or whatever.”

“They only specifically named Anders,” Garrett said. “But they suspect that there's more of us. And yes, Surana told the Revered Mother to shove it. Y'know. Politely.” He smirked. “I wish I could've seen the look on her face when she got it.”

“I could probably find out who delivered it,” Carver offered with feigned nonchalance. “You could ask.”

“Nathaniel dropped it off, actually,” Garrett replied. “On his way to see his sister and her new baby. So I'll just check in with him when he gets back. But thank you _ever_ so much for the offer.”

Bethany heaved a long-suffering sigh and shot a look at Garrett before focusing her attention on her twin. “Carver, how's your training going?”

They managed to keep from any open arguments through the rest of the meal, due in large part to Bethany's rapid subject changes and swift kicks to the shins. Carver excused himself immediately after dinner, claiming he had some important yet vague event to get to. Bethany walked him to the door; Garrett stayed in the kitchen, gathering the dirty dishes, and listened to their voices as they talked and laughed. It made things feel a little more normal, having Carver around again.

“You have to actually wash the dishes with your hands, Garrett,” Bethany said as she stepped into the kitchen. “You can't stare them into cleanliness.”

He glanced up at her and grinned. “So much for magic, huh?”

“I know. You'd think _someone_ would have invented a cleaning spell.”

*

_8 Harvestmere 9:32 Dragon_

Anders flipped a page in his book and sighed. There was precious little information about golems readily available, which was a shame; a body of stone and lyrium seemed like a better fit for Justice. Better than a rotting corpse, by far. But he wasn't sure how the spirit would interact with the golem's control mechanisms.

Pounce, in typical cat fashion, hopped up onto the bed and curled up on the book. Anders snorted and scratched the cat's head. “Do you have any ideas on how to help Justice, Ser Pounce-a-Lot?” he asked. Pounce just closed his eyes, purring happily. Anders shook his head. “Well, at least you're satisfied.” He tensed at the sudden knock on the door; over six months out of the tower, and a knock still made him twitchy. He was starting to suspect he'd never get over that place. “Yeah?” he called.

The door eased open, and Neria poked her head in. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” He sat up as she stepped inside. “What's that?” he asked, nodding at the large, cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms.

“For you.” Neria held it out to him and beamed.

Anders accepted the package with a slight frown of confusion. “Thanks. Uh, is there an occasion, or is this just one of your ‘hey, I found this neat thing in a cave that I thought you’d like’ gifts.”

Neria hesitated. “Tomorrow is your birthday, right?” she said. “I-I was pretty sure I’d remembered the right day, but…”

“Oh!” Anders looked back at the bundle. “Yeah. It is.” It had been years since anyone had acknowledged his birthday, much less given him a gift. “Should I, ah, open it now, or wait until tomorrow?”

“Open it now,” she said, waving her hands at him. “I’m too impatient to wait another day.”

He laughed and tugged at the fabric. “And you’re not even the one getting the present.”

The first thing he saw was the feathers, black and shiny and oddly familiar. They were attached to a jacket that he _definitely_ knew: it was the same blue-green fabric of his Tevinter robes, which had been more or less destroyed in Kal’Hirol. Underneath that was a longer, light brown coat with shiny gold buckles, a soft, off-white shirt, and a pair of dark brown pants. “The boots aren’t quite ready yet,” Neria said. “Wade’s being difficult, as always. But I think you’ll like them.”

“I… thanks,” he said with a smile, rubbing the fabric of the jacket between his fingers. The enchantments were gone, destroyed with the fabric, but it was still nice to have some piece of his old robes back.

She grinned and leaned against his desk. “Well, go on, try them on!”

Anders laughed. “Oh my, stripping down with a married woman in my chambers. How scandalous.”

“I think I'll be able to restrain myself from ravishing you,” she replied with a roll of her eyes.

“I just don't want to make you regret your vows, knowing what you had to give up.” Anders winked at her and started undoing the belts on his robes.

Neria shrugged. “I've seen everything you've got, Anders. Multiple times and up close. I'm not too heartbroken.”

“Oh, ouch!”

She laughed. “Have to keep your ego in check somehow.”

Anders paused, the belts halfway free of the loops at his waist. “Wait, so _is_ Zevran--”

“Oh, no. You two want to have a measuring contest, do that on your own time. I'm not getting involved. Now put on the clothes.”

He sighed and shook his head at her, but didn’t argue. He pulled his robes off over his head and threw them at Neria, grinning at her yelp of surprise and subsequent flailing. She tossed his robes off into a corner and bounced on her heels while he got dressed. “There are an awful lot of buckles and straps and chains on this,” Anders commented as he tugged the feathered jacket closed. “Trying to tell me something?”

She blinked at him, eyes wide with false innocence. “What could I _possibly_ be trying to tell you?”

“That I need to take a vow of chastity, apparently,” he muttered. “It’s going to take hours to get everything undone again.”

“I’m sure Hawke will figure it out,” Neria replied. “He’s a quick learner.”

Anders snorted and rolled his eyes. That was assuming that Garrett would be interested anytime soon. He ran his hands down the front of the coat, then turned to face Neria, arms spread. “So? How do I look?” he asked, adopting his most charming grin.

She looked him up and down and nodded. “Very handsome,” she said approvingly. “And it doesn’t scream ‘I’m a mage, please arrest me.’”

“Heh, yeah.” Anders smoothed out the feathers on his shoulder. They were new feathers, too smooth and soft and shiny to be the same as the ones the robes had come with. Those had started to look a bit bedraggled after getting soaked in darkspawn blood.

“It should be safer for you to leave the keep,” Neria continued. Anders tensed and glanced up at her; she sighed. “You haven’t left since the darkspawn attack,” she said. “You shouldn’t be spending your freedom hiding.”

He managed to dredge up a grin. “I’m not hiding,” he said. “I’m _lazy_. Leaving the keep takes effort. Did you not notice the amount of time I spend lounging about doing nothing?” Neria just arched an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed. Anders exhaled heavily. “Look, maybe once the Templars aren’t--”

“This isn't a damned Circle,” Neria said, her voice hard. Anders blinked at the sudden flare of cold anger in her eyes. “I refuse to live in fear of the Templars. I spent far too much of my life doing that. So did you. We _all_ need to stop being so bloody terrified of them.”

“That’s a nice sentiment, Nery,” Anders said, “but it’s a little hard to take it to heart when the Templars want to start fitting me for a noose.”

She sighed and took a step towards him. “They’re not going to come after you,” she said, tugging at his jacket to straighten it out. “Trust me.” Anders just stared at her, eyebrows raised skeptically. “Nathaniel and Hawke are going to Amaranthine in a few days,” Neria continued. “You should go with them. Pick up those supplies you’ve been complaining about.”

Anders pursed his lips. “Was this a bribe to get me out of the keep?” he asked, gesturing at the clothes.

“It’s not--I’m _worried_ about you, Anders.” Neria folded her arms, her head tilted back so she could look up at him. “And I don’t want you to feel trapped. We’re free here.”

As free as they could be, anyway. He sighed. “If I get arrested, I’m blaming you.”

She grinned. “If you get arrested, we’ll stage a daring rescue,” she promised. “Someone will jump through a window. It’ll be very exciting.”

“You better hope that they haven’t drained my mana by that point,” Anders replied with a dry smile. “Or else the window-jumper will bleed out. Dramatically.”

“We’ll let Oghren do it. He seems to thrive on pain.”

_11 Harvestmere 9:32 Dragon_

The Amaranthine market wasn’t quite far away enough from the Chantry for Anders’s liking. Then again, majority of the arling was a bit close, in his estimation. He glanced at the stairs, instinctively searching for gleaming silverite armor, and shifted his weight.

“Stop fidgeting,” Garrett said, idly poking at the wares on the table in front of him. “The point is to _not_ attract attention.”

Anders glared at him. “I know how to avoid the Templars, thanks.”

“Obviously not.” Garrett’s tone didn’t change, but a faint smirk appeared on his face as he looked up at Anders. “Seeing as they caught you seven times.”

Anders snorted. “You’re annoying when you’re right.”

“My fire to face.” The smirk shifted to a genuine grin for a moment before vanishing completely. Anders sighed and looked away. That was the worst part of this whole blighted thing-- Garrett kept giving him little flashes of warmth, flickers of how things used to be. It kept making him hope that they could get back to normal. Normal-ish, anyway.

“So when is this… _friend_ of yours supposed to get here?” Anders asked as he glanced around the market. The setting sun was at just the right angle to bathe the market in a blinding orange glow, leaving few dark corners for mysterious cowled individuals to lurk in. Anders had already picked up the supplies he needed for the infirmary; now they were loitering around the market, waiting for one of Garrett’s informants or agents or whatever he called them to show up. Nathaniel had dashed off to his sister’s house as soon as they’d entered the city gates, leaving the two of them alone for the first time in weeks.

Garrett picked up an ornamental dagger sheath and absently twirled it between his fingers. “ _If_ he shows up,” he said. “He might not put in an appearance at all. Some of my friends, as you call them, have been a bit distant lately.”

“With your devastating good looks and sparkling personality? How could they stay away?”

Garrett set the sheath down and glanced at Anders out of the corner of his eye. Anders grinned, although even he couldn’t tell if he’d meant the question sarcastically or not. Garrett shook his head. “If he doesn't show up in the next half hour, we'll head back to the inn,” he said.

“Mm.” Anders glanced back towards the stairs, and did a double-take at the woman standing a few stalls down. Her back was mostly towards him, but he swore he recognized the thigh-high boots and deep blue coat she wore. The hat was unfamiliar, though; he was certain he'd have remembered a feather of that size. Maybe he was just imagining things...

The woman turned around, and he smirked. Definitely not his imagination. It'd be a _long_ time before he could forget a woman with... assets... like that. “Fancy meeting you here, Captain,” he called, strolling towards her.

Isabela looked up, eyes wide with surprise. She looked him up and down as he sauntered over. “Oh, I know you,” she said, tapping a finger against her lips. “But from where, sweet thing?”

“The Pearl in Denerim? About three or four years ago?” Anders prompted. “You brought that friend of yours with the griffon tattoos...”

She stared at him, then her face lit up with recognition. “Oh, it's _you_!” she said in delight. “The runaway with that electricity thing! Oh, I have _missed_ you. Do you know how hard it is to find a mage to bed, much less one who can do that trick?”

“Friend of yours, Anders?” Garrett asked from just over his shoulder.

Isabela glanced over at him and smiled, raking him with her eyes. “Oh, yes, you should _definitely_ introduce us,” she purred.

“Isabela, this is Garrett Hawke,” Anders said, half-turning to gesture at the other man. Garrett narrowed his eyes at the woman, his shoulders tense. “He works for the arlessa. And Garrett, this is Captain Isabela. We met a few years ago on one of my escapes.”

“Almost got him for myself,” Isabela said, running a finger down Anders's arm. Garrett's jaw twitched slightly. “If you'd avoided the Templars for another day or two you'd be shirtless and glistening on the deck of my ship right now.” She grinned and winked at him. “The offer _is_ still good, you know.”

He heaved a melodramatic sigh. “Sadly, I can't just go sailing off into the sunset with you now,” he said. “I'm a Grey Warden, believe it or not.”

She burst out laughing. “Oh, now this I _have_ to hear,” she said. “I've got a room at the Crown. First round's on me.”

Anders grinned. “I'll never say no to free drinks with a beautiful woman,” he said. “Garrett, do you want to meet us there, or--”

“I can go now,” Garrett said. “My contact's not gonna show.”

Isabela nodded and draped an arm around Anders's shoulders. “Good,” she said, steering them towards the stairs. “It _is_ your turn to bring a friend-- and such a handsome one, at that.” She winked at Garrett; he sighed and looked away. Anders smirked bitterly. Even if everything else about Garrett was a confusing, complicated mess, at least jealousy was still as transparent as ever.

Almost two hours later, Anders was slouched in his chair and trying to wear Isabela’s hat. “This is very impractical,” he decided, pushing it up out of his eyes for the fifth time. “You can’t see anything!”

Isabela huffed out an annoyed breath and leaned across the table to snatch it back. “If you can’t appreciate the hat, you don’t get to wear the hat,” she decreed.

“It has a very lovely feather?”

“Nice try.” Isabela set the hat on the chair beside her and grinned at him, shaking her head. “I still can’t believe you of all people ended up as a Grey Warden.”

Anders shrugged. “The Maker moves in mysterious ways.” Beside him, Garrett snorted and took another drink of ale. It was the first noise he’d made in almost half an hour. The man was into a truly spectacular sulk. “Maybe that friend of yours was an omen.”

Isabela sighed. “She was a lovely girl. I ought to visit her next time I’m in Denerim. Which won’t be for some time, sadly.”

“Where are you off to?” Anders asked.

Isabela cast a split-second glance at Garrett before replying. “Here, there, and everywhere,” she said. “I have a package to pick up and deliver to a contact in Antiva.”

Anders sighed. “Everyone gets to go to Antiva but me,” he said. “It sounds like such _fun_.”

“So long as you don’t mind the smell of rotting fish and fresh leather, then sure. Loads of fun.”

“Can’t be any worse than mud and wet dog.”

“This package of yours wouldn’t be anything Fereldan, would it?” Garrett asked, finally breaking his self-imposed silence.

Isabela smirked. “Not that I'd tell you if it was, but no. I'm knicking something from the Orlesians, which ought to appeal to your patriotic sensibilities.”

Garrett shrugged and went back to staring at his mug. Anders rolled his eyes. “When are you leaving for this Orlesian encounter?”

“Tomorrow, actually.” Isabela sighed. “We should run into them in a couple weeks, then it's off to sunny Antiva to collect my fortune.” She grinned at Anders and ran her foot up the side of his leg. “You want to give me a proper send-off, sweet thing? I've missed that electricity trick of yours.”

Garrett abruptly pushed back from the table. “I need to get back,” he said, voice cold, then spun on his heel and stormed towards the door.

Anders blinked in confusion. Isabela heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes. “Well, go on after him,” she said, waving one hand at Anders while claiming Garrett's mug with the other.

“Right.” Anders stood and crossed the bar, then ducked out onto the dark street. He instinctively glanced towards the Chantry, then looked around for Garrett. The other man was halfway to the stairs leading to the merchant's quarter. “Garrett!” Anders jogged after him; much to his relief, Garrett didn't try to run away. “Garrett, wait up!”

He caught up at the top of the steps and grabbed Garrett's arm to keep him from descending. Garrett stopped, but didn't turn around. “What was that about?” Anders asked, breathing hard.

“I didn't feel like sitting around and watching the two of you seduce each other,” Garrett replied and pulled his arm free. “Being a third wheel isn't terribly pleasant.”

That had rather been the point. If throwing himself at a sexy pirate queen was the only way to get Garrett's attention, then so be it. "Well, nothing was stopping you from joining in,” Anders replied with a bitter smirk.

Garrett finally turned back, his lips pressed together in a thin line, shadows hiding most of his face. “That's not what-- I don't-- I shouldn't have-- I should never have let it go this far. I shouldn't have done this in the first place.”

Anders stared at him. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. “Wh-what?” he stammered, barely recognizing his voice as his own.

“I can't do this anymore,” Garrett said, looking away, the words coming out in a rush. “I can't afford to make this kind of mistake.”

“Wh--” Anders shook his head. “What, so I'm a _mistake_ now?”

Garrett started speaking almost before Anders finished. “Yeah. This whole thing was a mistake. I can't do this. We-- we're done.” He took half a step backwards. “Probably best if we pretend none of this ever happened.”

Anders watched Garrett race down the stairs, away from him, and vanish into the darkness. It couldn't... that couldn't have just happened. This wasn't how it was supposed to go-- Garrett wasn't supposed to just _leave_. His fingers felt numb, and he slowly curled and uncurled them, staring at the base of the stairs as though somehow Garrett would reappear.

The sound of clanking armor finally jolted him out of his shock. Anders spun around, on instinct more than anything, his gaze dancing across the street as he scanned for Templars. A pair of city guards came into view, chatting as they continued on their patrol, and Anders let out a breath. He glanced back at the stairs, then swallowed hard and went back to the Crown.

“Oh, that's not a good sign,” Isabela said as he trudged over to the table. “Pushed too hard, hm?”

Anders dropped into his chair. “He left.” Garrett had _left_ him, even though there wasn't really much of a relationship to leave from. There had been, once, but now... Maker, he didn't even know anymore. He slumped forward and buried his face in his hands.

Isabela sighed. “I had a feeling you were trying too hard to make him jealous, but it wasn't really my place to say anything,” she said.

“Was it that obvious?” Anders muttered, voice muffled.

“Oh, sweet thing, I could tell when you introduced us,” she replied. “Wait here.”

Her chair slid backwards, and Anders listened as her footsteps disappeared into the general hum of the bar. He raked his hands through his hair, staring at the surface of the table, and laced his fingers together behind his neck. “Here,” Isabela said, dropping a shot glass in front of him. “You need it.”

“Couldn't agree more.” Anders heaved a sigh and threw back the shot. It burned down his throat; a decent enough distraction from the stabbing ache in his chest.

Isabela set her own glass back on the table and gave him a sympathetic smile. “It's probably a little soon to offer a comforting tumble, but since I'm only in town tonight--”

“No, thanks. I... No.” Anders shook his head. “Wouldn't mind another shot, though.”

She chuckled lightly. “Am I going to be carrying you back to your room?”

“Probably. Or you could just leave me under the table. I don't really care.”

Isabela shook her head. “Oh, I wouldn't leave a pretty thing like you here to kidnapped and sold to slavers,” she said, affectionately patting his elbow. “You wouldn't last a week.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“I'll go get us another round.”

*

_16 Harvestmere 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett blinked at the paper on his desk, the words resolving themselves into something intelligible. The sentence made no sense, though, and he looked back up the page to find the last familiar paragraph _again_. It was the fourth time he’d tried to read this page, at least. His concentration was completely shot—he’d barely been sleeping the past few nights. The Fade was always dangerous to a sleeping mage, but now, with his wants and regrets so obvious, he stood out like a beacon. Desire demons trailed after him as he slept, each offering a rakish smirk or a spark of electricity or a warm, easy laugh.

None of them got it exactly right, thank the Maker. That didn’t make the dreams any easier to bear. So he’d taken to staying up late, reading or practicing spells or staring into the fire while Rascal slept on his feet.

He groaned and rubbed his hands down his face. Maker, but he’d screwed things up. He had no idea how to fix it, though, or if Anders would even want him to. Flames, he didn’t even know if _he_ wanted to. It hurt, but maybe it would be for the best, in the long run. He’d be able to focus on his family, his work.

The words fell flat, even in his own head.

With a sigh, Garrett stood and walked over to the window. The walls of the keep loomed overhead; he hadn’t been to his office in days, blatantly avoiding any chance that he’d run into Anders. It was just easier to stay away. He’d have to go back eventually, though. Unless he descended into the tunnels under Vigil’s Keep and ran away into the Deep Roads. Maybe the Legion of the Dead took the occasional human.

More likely that they’d use him as bait and feed him to the darkspawn. Garrett sighed and leaned his forehead against the glass.

“You’re an idiot.”

He closed his eyes. “Hello, Bethany.”

“At first I thought that maybe I’m adopted,” she continued, her footsteps moving into the room behind him. “Some poor little mage foundling that they took in. But Mother and Father were _far_ smarter than this, so now I’m thinking _you’re_ the one they found on the side of the road. Because I really can’t imagine how I could be related to someone so stupid.”

Garrett heaved another sigh and turned around. “You’ve made your point, Beth.”

She glared at him, arms folded over her chest. “No, I don’t think I have.” She nodded in the general direction of the keep. “I just went to see Anders, because you’ve been so bloody miserable the past few days, and I wanted to know just what he’d done to you to break your heart.” Garrett grimaced. “I assumed, out of some foolish sense of loyalty, that _you_ were the wronged party. So I made a complete ass out of myself before I found out that you broke up with him.”

Garrett dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. “It’s not really any of your business.”

“I have to live with you, and Anders is my friend, so yes, it bloody well _is_ my business.” Garrett could feel her staring at him, and he dropped his hands. “Why’d you do it?” she asked. “I know things had been sort of rough between you two lately, but…"

Because he wanted more than Anders seemed willing to give. Because he shouldn’t have wanted more. Because his priorities had gotten completely turned around somewhere. Because he’d broken things and running away seemed easier than trying to fix it. “It’s complicated,” he said, staring at the floor.

“Given that you’ve been moping around the house for the past few days, I’m guessing you’re not happy with this state of affairs,” Bethany said.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m happy, it--”

“Yes, it does!” Bethany took a step towards him, her eyes wide with concern. “What could be more important--”

“You.” Garrett finally raised his head to look at her. “You and Carver. You two _have_ to be the most important things in my life.”

She stared at him for several long, silent seconds. “You left him because of us?” she finally asked.

“I made a promise.” Garrett swallowed hard. “I swore to Father that I’d take care of everyone.”

Bethany sighed. “Garrett, you don’t have--”

“Yes, I do!” he cut in. “The last thing that Father ever said to me was ‘take care of them.’ And she might—she might not have been able to hear it, but I promised Mother, too.”

She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, then stepped forward and hugged him, pinning his arms to his sides. “You are taking care of us, you idiot,” Bethany said, pressing her cheek to his chest. “We’re safer here than we’ve ever been.”

“The siege--”

“Isn’t going to happen again. We’re _fine._ ” She stepped back and looked up at him. “They wouldn’t want you to sacrifice your happiness like this.”

She was right, again. Intellectually, he knew that. But it was hard to accept that he could only protect them so much when he could remember, so clearly, the crack in Father’s voice as he’d made his final request. Or the terrible, all-consuming guilt that he’d felt after Mother’s death, and the icy fear that had wrapped around him when he’d heard of the attack on the keep. Maybe there wasn’t anything he could have done, but he had to try.

Garrett sighed and slumped back against the window. “I don’t know how to fix it,” he muttered.

“That, big brother, is something you’ll have to figure out on your own.” Bethany gave him a sad smile. “If it makes you feel any better, Anders looks even worse than you do.”

His heart clenched, and he shook his head. “It doesn’t.”

“You should talk to him.”

“I know.” He owed Anders an explanation, if nothing else. Bethany was silent for several seconds, and Garrett glanced up to see her watching him expectantly. “I’m not going _now_.”

“Why not?”

Cowardice, his mind immediately supplied. Garrett frowned. “I need to think. Figure out what I’m going to say.”

“I’d go with ‘I am an idiot and I’m very sorry’,” Bethany suggested.

He sighed. “Thanks for the advice.”

“To start with. Groveling might not be out of line here.”

“I got it, Beth.”

She smirked. “You should also--”

“Done with the advice now, thank you.” Garrett managed a weak smile back at her.

Bethany chuckled and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “You should really listen to me more,” she said. “Everyone knows I got the brains in the family.”

“And I got the charm.” He paused for a beat. “No idea what Carver got. Certainly wasn’t the looks.”

She heaved a sigh. “And here I was going to give you another hug.” Garrett pouted and fluttered his eyelashes at her. Bethany rolled her eyes. “Stop it. You look ridiculous.”

“I’ll talk to him soon,” Garrett said, dropping the act. “Promise.”

“Good. If you don’t, I’m going to have Carver kidnap Anders and bring him down here, and then lock the two of you in your room until you sort things out.” Bethany smiled brightly at him and turned back towards the door. “I’m going to the keep for dinner. Want me to bring you anything?”

He shook his head. “I’ll just find something here. Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Bethany disappeared back into the hall. Garrett heaved a sigh and turned back to the window. Tomorrow. He’d go tomorrow and just… get it over with. One way or another.

*

_17 Harvestmere 9:32 Dragon_

Anders slammed the book shut with a low snarl. Nothing. Almost a thousand years of mages allowed to do nothing but research, and no one had ever bothered to investigate what spirits could and couldn't possess. It was all about demons turning mages into abominations-- and all with subtext implying that the cursed, power-hungry mages deserved it, which did wonders for his mood.

Pounce jumped up on the desk and bumped his head into Anders's chin. Anders reached up to stroke the cat automatically, staring blankly at the windows and the courtyard beyond. Researching a way to help Justice was the only distraction he'd had in days, and that was just one dead end after another. There were no patients to treat, no potions to craft, and no one to go bother in a fit of boredom. Not that he really wanted to be around many other people; holding up his end of conversation at mealtimes was about all he had energy for lately.

“At least I've still got you, Ser Pounce-a-Lot.” Anders picked up the cat and hugged him tight, burying his face in the soft fur. Pounce tolerated the snuggling for about a minute, then politely dug his claws into Anders's chest and pushed away. “Oh, fine,” Anders muttered, releasing his hold on the cat. “Just don't go far.”

Pounce trotted across the room and settled in on one of the windowsills. Anders idly watched the cat clean himself, then looked away at a light knock on the door. “It's open,” he called.

There was a brief pause before the door opened and Garrett stepped inside. “Uh. Hi,” he said, shoulders hunched, as he nudged the door shut with his foot.

Anders clenched his jaw and carefully pressed his hands flat against his legs, fighting the overpowering urge to electrocute the man and then toss him out the window. Walked out on him, called him a mistake, ignored him for a week, and Garrett came back to say _hi_? “What do you want?” Anders asked, voice icy.

Garrett swallowed hard and looked away. “I, uh. I think I owe you an explanation.”

“Among other things.” Anders turned fully towards him and stared expectantly.

Garrett's gaze flickered back to Anders, and he winced. “Having your full and undivided attention is a little nerve-wracking, did you know that?”

“Yes.” It was a trick he'd learned in the Circle: he spent so much of his time acting flighty and cheerful that turning abruptly serious tended to be unsettling, at minimum.

“So this is deliberate.”

“More or less.” Anders folded his arms over his chest and arched an eyebrow. “I'm waiting.”

Garrett sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I... I'm sorry,” he began. “For what I said. I... I didn't mean... I didn't mean most of it.”

Anders snorted. “Most of it,” he repeated. “Care to clarify which parts you _did_ mean, then?”

“I...I thought that I-I couldn't do this. This thing, whatever we have—had--” Anders couldn't quite keep from flinching at the correction to past tense, “--we said we weren't going to get, you know, really involved, but I... I care about you, Anders. More than I should.”

“Right. Because I'm only worth so much effort and time. Maker forbid you waste too much of it on a _distraction_ like me.”

Garrett straightened up a bit, eyes narrowing. “That's not what I meant.”

“Of course it was.” Anders pushed himself to his feet, momentarily glad of the few inches in height that he had on the other man. “That's what I am, right? A distraction. A mistake. Something to pick up and toy with when you don't have anything more important to do.”

“You're the one who said this was just supposed to be for fun,” Garrett snapped. “Nothing serious. _That's_ what I meant. You said you didn't want to get too involved and I did.”

Anders shook his head. It was a nice lie, almost flattering, but he knew the real reasons Garrett had gone running. “So the obvious response is to--” leave him, “call me a mistake and walk away? Exactly what part of that is caring too much?”

“I assumed you _didn't_ care! You were off shagging everyone with a bloody pulse--”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Anders demanded. “You kept throwing me out like so much garbage, telling me that I wasn’t as important as your family or your job or your damned _dog_ —so yes, I went out and got laid!”

“I wasn’t--”

“And by the way,” Anders continued, talking over him, “if my sleeping around _bothered_ you so damn much, you should have said something!”

Garrett sneered silently and shook his head. “Oh, you knew, don’t give me that--”

“Every time I asked if it was a problem, you said no.” Anders glowered at him. Garrett had gotten jealous, that much had been obvious, but he'd never acted on it. If he'd actually _cared_... “You said no, then you'd turn around and get all possessive, and I didn't know what to think. But every time you said it was fine, so don't you bloody _dare_ dump that on me!”

“I thought I was gonna lose you!” Garrett looked momentarily taken aback, like he couldn't believe he'd actually said it aloud. Then he sighed, shoulders slumped, and shook his head. “I thought that if I... if I forced you to chose between me and your, your freedom, that you wouldn't choose me. So I just... I just dealt with it. Figured it was better to have some part of you than nothing at all.”

Anders blinked at him. Somehow _that_ meant more to him than Garrett's direct declaration that he cared. “Is it a bad sign if that's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me?”

The other man huffed out a breath and shook his head, a look almost like pity crossing his face. “Yes, Anders, very bad sign.”

“Ah.” The fight had gone out of him, and Anders sighed, fixing his gaze on the floor near Garrett's boots. “That still doesn't explain why you kept pushing me away.”

Garrett made a faint, pained noise and shifted in place. Anders raised his gaze to Garrett's face; the other man glanced around, then took a few steps forward, leaning stiffly against one of the support columns. “I... I just...” He hesitated, then looked up and met Anders's eyes. “The last thing my father ever said to me was 'take care of them,'” he said. “I'd already let Mother die, and then with the siege... I came _so_ close to losing them, to being left alone, and I just panicked. And then things had just gotten so –so complicated between us, and I didn't know what to do to make it right.” He raised his arms in a helpless gesture. “For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I really am.”

Anders looked away. “I-I'm sorry, too.” He tightened his grip on his arms, fighting down a sudden wave of loneliness.

They stood in uncomfortable silence, both avoiding each other's gazes, until Garrett finally spoke. “Now what?”

Anders risked a glance back at him. “Maybe we could just... start over?” he offered. “Pretend none of it ever happened?”

Garrett winced and shook his head. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

The bottom dropped out of Anders's stomach. “Oh.” Of course not. Whatever we had, Garrett had said, which meant he thought it was over. Nothing there worth saving.

Some of his heartbreak must have shown on his face, because Garrett straightened up and took a step towards him. “I didn't mean-- I just meant we can't really forget about the past however many months,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “Why don’t we just try, you know…” He shrugged. “We care about each other and we’re not going to be such complete jackasses from now on?”

This emotional whiplash was going to be the death of him. Anders searched Garrett's face and offered him a tentative smirk. “I'd hate for you to give up one of your talents on my behalf.”

Garrett smiled crookedly. “I think I can make the sacrifice.” The smile faded, and he swallowed hard, studying Anders just as intently. “So, are we... are we okay? Or, will we be?”

He seemed just as anxious about this whole mess as Anders was. It was gratifying, in a way. Anders nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good.” Garrett hesitated for a second, then stepped forward, closing the space between them. He reached out and placed a hand on the back of Anders's neck, and Anders let himself be drawn in, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned their foreheads together. “I'm so, so sorry,” Garrett murmured, sliding his other arm around Anders's waist.

“I know.” Anders wrapped his fingers around Garrett's wrist. It wasn't all right, not entirely, not yet. But they had a better chance at it now.

Garrett tugged him closer, chest to chest, and Anders buried his face in Garrett's hair. “I missed you,” Garrett said, fingers tracing idle patterns up and down Anders's back.

“Missed you too.”

Another silence fell over the room, this one far more comforting. Eventually, Garrett drew back enough to see Anders's face. “I'm supposed to be joining Bethany and Nathaniel for dinner soon,” he said. “I think that if I screwed this up, Bethany was going to ritually execute me in front of everyone.”

Anders smirked. “So you want me to shield you from her wrath?”

“Pretty much.” Garrett leaned in and brushed their noses together. “Plus it'll save us the hassle of having to make some kind of formal announcement about our relationship.”

The smirk shifted into a full grin. “Oh, but I was so looking forward to sending out notes to everyone. 'I am pleased to inform you that Garrett Hawke and I are once again shagging like--'”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Garrett chuckled as he pulled Anders in for a kiss, and Anders couldn't help but smile against his lips. Maybe this time they'd get it right.

*

Garrett slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor of the keep, trying to quell the butterflies in his stomach. Dinner had gone well enough; Bethany had kept her teasing to a minimum, and while things were still a bit awkward between him and Anders, it was still infinitely better than the past few weeks. They'd spent most of the meal stealing glances at each other, their hands brushing together under the table, until Sigrun had announced that if they kept it up she was going to stab something.

Of course, then a servant had shown up with a note for Anders, who'd grumbled about people only needing a healer when it was most inconvenient and dashed off to the infirmary. Garrett had spent a few hours in his office getting work done before he'd given in and headed upstairs. He reached Anders's door and hesitated, trying to convince his stomach to unknot itself, then he rapped on the door. “It's open,” Anders called, and Garrett let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

“Hey.” Anders was sprawled out on his bed, hands tucked behind his head, wearing only a pair of dark pants. Garrett glanced around the room as he shut the door and let out a small sigh of relief when he spotted Pounce sleeping in his basket. Kicking the kitten out of bed generally made him feel like a terrible person.

“Waiting for me?” Garrett asked, turning his attention back to Anders.

Anders shrugged and smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

Garrett grinned and stepped out of his boots. He could feel Anders's gaze on him as he pulled off his shirt and belt; both were abandoned on the floor, and he carefully climbed up on the bed, stretching out halfway on top of the other man. Anders looked cautious, more than anything, unable or unwilling to take his eyes off Garrett. “Hi,” Garrett murmured as he slid a hand up to cradle the side of Anders's face.

“Hi,” Anders breathed. Garrett smiled and leaned in to kiss him. It was slow and gentle, barely more than a taste of each other. Garrett nuzzled at Anders's cheek, their breaths mingling in the small space between them, then kissed him again. He could feel Anders relaxing ever so slightly, and he couldn't help a relieved sigh when the other man finally moved his arms. Anders wrapped one around Garrett's waist and settled his other hand against Garrett's neck, fingers lightly toying with his hair.

It was quiet for a while, the silence broken only by the sounds of their breathing and the slide of skin on skin. Garrett pressed a line of kisses up Anders's throat and along his jaw, unable to keep from smiling. He didn't have to hold back anymore, didn't have to pretend that this meant nothing. Didn’t have to lie to himself or to Anders or to anybody, really. He laughed softly and brushed a kiss to the shell of Anders's ear.

Anders drew back slightly, turning his head so he could see Garrett. “What'd I miss?” he asked, frowning. “Something funny about my ears?”

Garrett just shook his head, still smiling. “No, I just... I'm just happy.” Happier than he'd felt in a long, long time. Probably since Mother died, at least.

“Yeah?” Anders searched his face, his own lips curving up in an answering smile. “That's good.”

Garrett hummed in agreement and kissed him. He slid his hand into Anders's hair, tugging the tie free, his fingers slipping through the loose strands. Anders made a faint, contented noise in the back of his throat, the tension draining out of him. Garrett bent his head and trailed kisses along Anders's collarbone and shoulder, nuzzling at the other man's pulse for a moment before slowly moving downward. Anders let out a low moan as Garrett kissed his way down his chest; Garrett paused, rubbing his beard against Anders's stomach like a cat, and wondered vaguely if Anders would hold still long enough for him to kiss every inch of the other man's skin. Another time, he decided, and hooked his fingers into the waistband of Anders's pants.

Anders lifted his hips, kicking the clothing away once it was near his feet. Garrett shifted to the side and traced his tongue over the dark lines of the tattoo on Anders's hipbone. It was something Tevinter, he knew that much, though he'd never asked what it meant or when Anders had gotten it.

“What's this mean?” Garrett asked, grinning, and bumped his nose against the tattoo for emphasis.

Anders let out a breathy, strangled laugh. “You're seriously asking me this _now?_ ” Garrett raised his head slightly and shrugged. Anders shook his head. “Rain,” he said. “It's the ancient Tevinter sign for rain. And if you ask me why or when or anything else, I'll-- I'll do something unpleasant.”

“I'm trembling in fear,” Garrett murmured, still smirking. Anders huffed out a breath and traced his fingers down the side of Garrett's face. Garrett turned into the touch, pressing kisses to Anders's palm and wrist, pulse fluttering under his lips. Eventually, Anders pulled his hand away, lightly pushing at Garrett's head in an effort to redirect his attention. “Mm. Something you'd like me to do while I'm down here?” Garrett teased.

“I can think of a few things,” Anders replied, halfway sitting up and tucking a couple pillows behind his head.

Garrett propped himself up on one elbow, deliberately ignoring Anders's less-than-subtle squirming. “Expecting a show?”

Anders settled back against the pillows and smirked. “Yep.”

“Well, I'd hate to disappoint,” Garrett murmured. He wrapped his fingers around Anders's cock, then dragged his tongue across the head. Anders almost gasped, breath stuttering in his chest. Garrett glanced up and smirked before lowering his head to take Anders's cock into his mouth.

Anders moaned, his hips jerking up once before he went mostly quiet and mostly still, panting for air and trembling a bit as Garrett moved around him. His hand skated through Garrett's hair, then moved away. Garrett fumbled blindly at the bed until he found Anders's hand gripping the sheets; he grabbed the other man's wrist and moved it back to his hair. Anders didn't have to be told twice-- he tangled his fingers through the thick locks and pressed down on the back of Garrett's head. Garrett moaned and went willingly. He took Anders in as deep as he could, then pushed himself just a little farther down, fighting back the instinct to gag for as long as possible before drawing back. Anders let out a low, gasping moan and tightened his grip on Garrett's hair.

Even after months together, Anders was still quiet-- a habit leftover from the Circle, Garrett guessed, though he'd never asked. Soft, choked breaths and the occasional muffled whimper were the most noise Garrett could usually get out of him. It had taken some getting used to; Garrett generally went by sound to tell if he was doing it right, and Anders went out of his way to avoid sound at all. But Garrett had learned what to look for, or more accurately, to feel: the tension coiling in Anders's body, every muscle going rigid as he drew closer to the edge.

Garrett slid his free hand down Anders's side, fingers trailing just a hint of ice over the other man's heated skin, tongue dragging along the underside of his cock. Anders made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, his hips jerking up against Garrett as he came. Garrett swallowed around him, then drew back, gasping for breath. Anders let out a needy, desperate whine and tugged at Garrett's shoulders; Garrett crawled back up him and collapsed at his side. Anders rolled over and grabbed the back of Garrett's head, then captured his mouth in a hard, sloppy kiss.

“Maker's blood,” Anders breathed when he finally pulled back, their lips barely an inch apart. “I _missed_ you.”

Garrett tried not to wince. He didn't want to think about the past two months of idiocy and confusion and heartbreak, not now. “Missed you, too,” he murmured and threw an arm around Anders's waist, dragging him closer. Anders let out a contented sigh and pressed his forehead to Garrett's shoulder, his hands tracing absent patterns over Garrett's back. Garrett took the opportunity to shimmy out of his pants, kicking them out of the way, then hooked one leg around Anders's and pulled him closer. He pressed his lips to Anders's hair and ear, and when that wasn't enough, he pushed the other man over onto his back and kissed him thoroughly.

When they came up for air, Anders blinked at him slowly and smiled, one hand resting against Garrett's cheek. Garrett turned his head and nuzzled at Anders's palm. “So,” he murmured, shifting his weight to one elbow, still leaning over the other man, “how do you want me?” He rolled his hand in the air to silently ask who'd be topping.

Anders stretched languidly. “Mm, I'm sort of enjoying this whole lie-on-my-back-and-do-none-of-the-work thing.”

Garrett snorted and rolled his eyes. “Ass.”

“It is one of my better features,” Anders agreed with a grin.

“True.” Garrett slid his hand over Anders's hip to grab a handful of the aforementioned ass. Anders laughed breathily. “Though I also like your hands,” Garrett continued. “And your eyes. And your smile.”

“This,” Anders said, sliding a hand down between his legs, “is getting dangerously sappy.”

Garrett smirked at the magic sparking off his skin as Anders cast a rejuvenation spell on himself. “I _really_ like that spell,” he said. “I think it's my favorite.”

“Not grease?” Anders asked as he leaned back into the pillows, eyes halfway falling shut as he stroked himself.

Garrett shook his head. “You can get the same effect by other means,” he murmured and raised his hand to trace two fingers against Anders's lips. Anders nipped at him, tongue flicking out over Garrett's fingertips, before he lowered his head and took both fingers in his mouth. Garrett groaned as Anders sucked gently at them, the other man's eyes fluttering closed. Anders shifted slightly, his hand brushing against Garrett's stomach, but it was hard to think about anything besides Anders's mouth and tongue and--

\--slick fingers on his cock. Garrett made a strangled noise and jerked forward involuntarily, gasping as Anders stroked him. Anders chuckled and opened his eyes, smiling around Garrett's fingers. “Maker's balls, Anders,” Garrett breathed.

Anders released his fingers and smirked. “And you said you didn't like that spell.”

“I didn't say I didn't like it, I just-- hnngh-- like the other one better.” Garrett dropped his head to Anders's shoulder, his breath coming in short gasps. Anders chuckled again and hooked one leg around Garrett's waist, then reached up to tangle his still-slicked fingers through Garrett's. Garrett grinned and pressed a kiss to Anders's throat as he slid his hand down, drawing a sharp curse out of the other man as he teased briefly at his cock, then dipped lower.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Anders hissed as Garrett slid one finger inside. “Andraste's-- yes, like that, fuck, Garrett, give me more.”

“You sure?” Garrett murmured. Anders was tight around him, and while he wasn't certain, he guessed that it had been a while-- a few weeks since they'd been together like that, at least.

Anders growled. “Wouldn't have asked if I wasn't.”

Garrett huffed out a laugh. “Far be it from me to say no, then,” he said. Anders bit his lip and arched his back when Garrett added a second finger; Garrett kissed his neck, tonguing at Anders's pulse as he slowly worked his fingers in him.

“Please, Garrett, I—oh, Maker, _please_ , I need...” There was a hint of desperation in Anders's voice, in the way he dug his fingers into Garrett's shoulders. Garrett felt his chest tighten, and he raised his head to capture Anders's lips in another kiss as he gently withdrew his fingers. Anders moaned against his lips and wrapped his other leg around Garrett's waist.

Garrett drew back slightly, smirking as Anders dropped his head to the pillows with a muffled thump. The other man's hair was a tousled mess, his eyes wide and glinting in the low light as he smirked back. “Maker's breath, you're gorgeous,” Garrett murmured, then grinned as Anders blushed and glanced away. He leaned in and stole another kiss. “Ready?”

Anders snorted. “Been waiting on you, sweetheart.”

Garrett shifted position slightly, putting his weight on his knees as he carefully guided himself in. He pressed his forehead against Anders's and took a few deep breaths to steady himself, while Anders squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood. Garrett leaned over him, one hand planted in the pillows beside Anders's head, and brushed his fingers against the other man’s jaw. “You okay?”

Anders nodded. “Been a while,” he muttered, confirming Garrett’s suspicions, then opened his eyes. “But if you stop I will throw you out a window.”

“You’re very demanding.”

“And you’re—oh, holy Andraste…” Anders gasped as Garrett slowly rocked forward.

“No, it’s _Garrett_ ,” he corrected, grinning.

Anders managed a half-hearted glare. “You are such an--” Another slow thrust turned the rest of his sentence into a low moan. “Stop that,” he ground out.

Garrett chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t want to get tossed out the window.”

“You’re—oh, Maker—you’re impossible.”

“Part of my charm.” Garrett brushed a kiss to Anders’s lips, then finally decided to have mercy on him, rolling his hips in steady, languid thrusts. He watched Anders as he shifted, changing the angle and driving in deeper, waiting for—

Anders groaned and arched his back, body taut, his head rolling to the side. “Oh, fuck, that’s it,” he breathed as he canted his hips up towards Garrett. He grabbed Garrett’s shoulder and pulled him down, their chests pressed together, and kissed him hard. They fell into an easy rhythm, Garrett’s face buried against Anders’s neck, Anders’s fingers tangled in Garrett’s hair.

It was a slow, sweet build towards release. Garrett could feel his own need echoed in the tension of Anders’s muscles, the urgency in his movement. Anders ground up against him, instinctively seeking some kind of friction. Garrett worked a hand between them and wrapped his fingers around Anders’s cock; Anders made a low sound in the back of his throat, jaw clenched to muffle himself.

Garrett raised his head and pressed a kiss to the corner of Anders’s mouth. “Let me hear you,” he rasped, speeding up the movement of his hips and his hand. Anders groaned quietly. “Come for me, Anders, please, I want to hear you--”

Anders jerked, his entire body tense and his nails digging into Garrett’s arms, then he came with a half-sobbed moan that might have been Garrett’s name. Garrett grabbed his hips and yanked Anders against his body, driving into him with hard, fast strokes. Anders tugged at Garrett's hair, turning his face up towards him, and captured his lips in a surprisingly gentle kiss. Garrett groaned into Anders's mouth, shuddering as he came.

“Holy Maker.” Garrett collapsed in a boneless heap on top of Anders. A small, considerate part of his mind suggested that perhaps he ought to move; but even if he'd had the strength, Anders was tangled around him, effectively pinning him in place.

“Mm. I agree.” Anders ran his fingers through Garrett's hair, absent-minded, soothing caresses. Garrett hummed and pressed his cheek to Anders's shoulder, letting his eyes close for a moment. Anders shifted slightly. “Oh, no,” he muttered. “You cannot fall asleep like this. I will end up permanently twisted into a knot and it will be terrible.”

“You're a healer,” Garrett replied, grinning. “You could fix it.”

“I appreciate your estimation of my skills, but some things are beyond even me.”

Garrett chuckled before slowly pulling away and disentangling himself. He flopped onto his side and immediately grabbed Anders's shoulder, tugging him over so they were facing each other. Anders smiled and draped an arm around Garrett's waist. Garrett brushed the hair off Anders's face, cradling the back of his head as he drew him in for a kiss.

“Good timing,” Anders mumbled against his lips, and Garrett drew back, confused. Anders looked away and smirked as Pounce walked nimbly up his leg. “Any sooner and it would have been-- ow claws ow ow ow.”

Garrett chuckled as Anders scooped the kitten up and set him on the pillow over their heads. Pounce sniffed at Garrett's hair, then pawed at it. “What is he doing?” Garrett asked cautiously.

“Probably wants to make a nest,” Anders replied, scooting closer and tucking his head against Garrett's chest.

“He's not a bird.” Garrett shifted his head away from the cat; Pounce didn't take the hint and followed after him, continuing to paw at his scalp.

“Everything makes nests,” Anders replied. “Speaking of which: blankets?” He made a vague grabbing motion towards the foot of the bed, where most of the bedclothes had been kicked. Garrett sighed and halfway sat up to grab them. “You moved,” Anders whined as Garrett settled the blankets over them.

Garrett rolled his eyes. “How else was I supposed to get them?”

“Magic?” Anders suggested with a grin, holding up a slightly glowing hand.

“Could've just used magic to keep yourself warm, then.”

“I don't want to set the bed on fire.” Anders paused for a moment. “Again.”

“Again?” Garrett tugged Anders back towards him as he settled back down.

Anders looked a bit sheepish. “That electricity thing took some practice,” he said. “Let's just leave it at that.”

“For now,” Garrett said. “I'll get the full story out of you eventually.”

“Mm. We'll see.”

Garrett grinned and nuzzled at Anders's cheek. He slid his hand down the other man's arm, thumb stroking over the back over his wrist for a moment, before reaching down and twining their fingers together. Anders made a quiet, surprised noise, but didn't pull away. After a few moments, Anders squeezed his hand and tucked his head under Garrett's chin, breath warm against his skin. Garrett let out a quiet sigh and closed his eyes. He wasn't going to risk losing this, not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Justice's line about "the purpose of freedom is to create it for others" is originally from Bernard Malamud.
> 
> Extra-special thanks to my always wonderful beta, abhorsen327, for the suggestion about Anders's new (semi-DA2-ish) clothes. <3


	9. Chapter Eight

_21 Harvestmere 9:32 Dragon_

Anders woke to the sound of rain and a vague feeling of suffocation. He blinked at the ceiling, dimly illuminated by the grey morning light. At some point in the night, he'd rolled onto his back, which the other occupants of the bed had taken as a clear invitation to use him as a pillow. Pounce was curled up on his chest, purring contentedly, and Garrett was twined around his left side, snoring. Probably also in contentment, Anders guessed. Cuddling was nice and all--better than nice, actually, more like 'absolutely fantastic'-- but he couldn't feel his left arm and his left leg was starting to go as well.

He sighed. His arm was a lost cause, seeing as Garrett was hugging it to his chest like a stuffed toy, but he might be able to save his leg from the unpleasant fate of pins-and-needles. Anders slowly inched his leg out from under Garrett's, trying to keep from waking the other man. He managed to ease the limb free, but despite his care the movement jostled Garrett into consciousness. “Whasit whosa?” Garrett slurred and made a valiant effort at burrowing into Anders's shoulder.

“Go back to sleep,” Anders said, taking advantage of the opportunity to slip his arm free. He frowned as his fingers started to tingle.

“Mmph.” Garrett threw an arm around Anders's waist. “G'morning.” He paused and raised his head a bit. “Is it morning? Still dark.”

“It's raining.”

“Oh.” Garrett halfway sat up, rolling his shoulders, then fell back onto the bed and tugged the blankets higher. “It's cold.”

“Mm.” Anders winced as the tingling in his fingers changed to stinging. 

Garrett frowned. “Something wrong?”

“You cut off circulation to my arm,” Anders said, holding up the hand in question. 

Garrett made a sympathetic noise and half-smiled. “Sorry,” he said, then grabbed Anders's hand and raised it to his lips for a kiss.

Anders huffed out a light laugh and looked away. Much as he wanted to take Garrett's affection at face value, he was still a bit wary about the whole thing. It had only been three days, and he couldn't help but think that Garrett was only doing it to make up for his past mistakes. That eventually it would fade and things would fall apart again.

He hoped by all that was holy that he was wrong.

They laid in silence for a while, listening to the rain drumming on the window. Garrett idly stroked his thumb against the back of Anders's hand; Anders felt himself starting to drift back to sleep. Garrett sighed and nuzzled at Anders's shoulder. “I feel like I should go home and put on clean clothes. Get some work done today.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But it's cold and raining and I don't want to move.”

Anders smiled. “So don't,” he advised. Pounce stood up and stretched, claws digging into his chest, then wandered down the bed towards the window. 

Garrett shrugged. “I just feel sort of bad leaving Beth in the house by herself. She can't cook.”

“Maybe she's not alone,” Anders said.

Garrett bolted upright, staring down at him with wide eyes. “What?”

Anders laughed. “I just meant that she's probably having breakfast in the keep,” he said, shrugging. “Maker, you are _such_ an easy mark.” Garrett grumbled under his breath and laid back down. Anders waited until he was fully settled to continue. “Besides, it's not like Nathaniel can cook either, so he'd probably want to come back here--”

Garrett made a strangled, yelping sort of noise, then grabbed a pillow and shoved it over Anders's face, apparently intent on smothering him with it. “Theorizing about my baby sister's-- romantic escapades is strictly forbidden!”

Anders laughed and pushed the pillow down. “Oh, Andraste's flaming garters, you can't even _say_ 'Bethany's sex life,' that's--”

The rest of his words disappeared into the pillow. “She doesn't have one!” Garrett insisted, sounding borderline hysterical.

“Garrett, you're utterly insane, did you know that?” Anders asked, trying not to giggle, his voice muffled.

“Shut up. You're terrible.”

Anders yanked the pillow out of Garrett's hands and dangled it off the edge of the bed. “No, I'm not.”

“Terrible.” Garrett nodded somberly.

Given that Garrett was leaning over him, their noses mere inches apart, Anders didn't exactly believe him. He rolled his eyes and lightly hit Garrett in the arm with the pillow. “And _you_ are hopelessly melodramatic.”

Garrett grabbed at the pillow and missed. Anders grinned and leaned up to kiss him, then whacked him in the back with the pillow again. “Oh, it is _on_ \--” Garrett muttered, twisting around to grab a pillow of his own. 

The pillow fight didn't last long; a slipped hand led to the valuable revelation that Garrett was incredibly ticklish. Anders tossed his pillow to the floor in favor of attacking the other man's ribs. Garrett squeaked and attempted to retaliate for a few desperate, futile moments, then went on the defensive and curled into a ball.

“Stop! Stop, stop stop stop,” Garrett pleaded, laughing, as he scooted away.

Anders grinned. “Give me a good reason to,” he replied, waggling his fingers menacingly.

Garrett's back hit the wall and he pouted. “I'm adorable?”

“Try again.”

“ _You're_ adorable?”

Anders sighed and rolled his eyes. “If you'd said 'devastatingly sexy' then I--”

Garrett pounced abruptly, tackling Anders and pinning his wrists to the bed. “Ha!”

“Oh, no, being under you is such a dreadful fate,” Anders deadpanned, running his foot along Garrett's calf.

“You truly are a martyr,” Garrett agreed. 

Anders rolled his eyes. “You'll advocate for my sainthood with the Chantry, right?” he asked, pulling Garrett down for a kiss.

“Of course.”

*

_25 Harvestmere 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett sighed for the seventh time in two minutes and shifted his weight. “I still don't understand why I have to be here,” he muttered. “I'm not a Warden.” Surana had brushed off his questions when he’d arrived in the throne room; now she was huddled up near the doors with Varel, conversing in hushed tones and casting furtive glances around the room. 

Anders shrugged. “I don't know why any of us are here.”

“Formalities,” Nathaniel said. “We Wardens have to greet our brethren.” He sounded about as excited as Garrett felt.

“Yes, but why am _I_ here?” Garrett asked, not quite whining.

“Same reason as Varel.” Nathaniel nodded at the seneschal. “You're a member of the court. You get to meet visiting dignitaries.”

Garrett scrunched up his nose. “Orlesians,” he muttered. “They probably brought _horses_.”

Anders rolled his eyes at that. “Did you get thrown from one as a child or something?”

“No. They're just mean. And untrustworthy. And Orlesian.”

“Plenty of Fereldens have horses,” Nathaniel put in.

Garrett shook his head in disappointment. “Traitors. Each and every one.” 

“I'm with Hawke on this one,” Sigrun said, joining their little cluster near the fire pit. “Something unnatural about the beasts.”

Nathaniel and Anders exchanged long-suffering looks. Garrett snickered and inched closer to Anders, fighting the urge to put his arms around the other man. Public displays of affection were generally frowned up at formal court events. He settled for letting the back of his hand brush against Anders's. Anders glanced at him and gave him a small, crooked half-smile.

The doors to the throne room banged open. “M'lady, the rider from Orlais has arrived,” one of the guards announced.

Surana straightened up. “Rider?” she repeated. “I thought--”

“Surprise!” A towering blonde man in heavy silver and blue armor strode in, grinning from ear to ear. Surana beamed and bounded over to him; he swept her up in a bear hug, taking her feet clear off the ground. “Maker's breath, Neria, it's so _good_ to see you!”

“Good to see you too, Alistair,” she replied once she was back on her feet. “Where is everyone?”

“I, ah, left the Orlesians at the border,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I figured you wouldn't want some stuffy lord's son hovering over your shoulder, telling you what to do... asking questions...” He gave her a rather pointed look. Surana grimaced briefly and nodded. Garrett raised an eyebrow and glanced at Anders; he shrugged and shook his head. “So when we got your report about how neatly you'd handled everything here, the Commander back in Orlais agreed to let me make the delivery by myself.”

“Delivery?” Oghren asked as he pushed off the wall. “Why do I have a feelin’ you don’t mean fancy cheese?”

“Well.” Alistair grinned. “I did bring some of those, too. But I’ve got orders from Weisshaupt,” he flashed Surana an apologetic smile, “and the new uniforms.”

“Uniforms?” Anders repeated. 

“Ah. Yes.” Alistair glanced at Surana in confusion. “You didn’t tell them…?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Nathaniel looked Alistair up and down, then narrowed his eyes. “Are they all blue and silver like that?”

“More or less,” Alistair replied, sounding a bit hesitant. “I had one of the servants take them up to everyone’s quarters…”

Garrett glanced from Alistair to Anders and back. Assuming that the mages’ version of the armor would be somewhat lighter… oh, this had potential. Garrett smirked and sidestepped closer to Anders. “We should find a reason to go upstairs,” he murmured. 

Anders glanced at him. “Should we now?”

“Yes.”

Nathaniel had started a heated argument with Surana about the new uniforms—something about stealth and bright blue not mixing well—while Oghren and Alistair were chatting companionably. Sigrun wandered in their direction, giving Oghren a bit of distance, and peered at Alistair's armor. “I don’t think anyone will notice if we step out,” Anders said with a grin. “What’d you have in mind?”

Garrett grabbed his wrist and tugged him towards the door. “C’mon.”

They slipped out of the throne room without any trouble, and Garrett led them up the stairs to Anders’s room. “Not that I’m complaining, but is there any particular reason you’re hauling me away for a midday tryst?”

“I want to see how the uniform looks on you,” Garrett said, ushering him through the door.

Anders made a face. “Seriously?”

“Yes.” 

“That isn’t any kind of tryst.” Anders sighed as he walked to his bed and picked up the uniform. “And there aren't any feathers,” he pouted.

Garrett rolled his eyes. “Not everything you own has to have feathers on it. C'mon, try it on.”

“Why?”

“The armor looked good on Alistair, so I'm betting it'll look _really_ good on you.”

Anders arched an eyebrow. “Is your gaze wandering already?”

“Hardly. He's not my type.” He’d always had a preference for men who were slimmer than he was, someone he could get his arms around and possibly pick up for carrying to bed. Garrett nodded at the uniform. “Try it on.”

Anders exhaled heavily. “Fine. Turn around.”

Garrett obediently pivoted on one foot and stared at the wall. Behind him, Anders puttered around, undressing entirely too slowly for Garrett's tastes. “Are you ready yet?”

“No.”

He sighed. “You know, I'd have had you out of your clothes by now.”

“Yes, but if you were undressing me, I wouldn't be getting back into anything anytime soon.”

“True.” Garrett drummed his fingers against his leg and resisted the urge to turn around when he heard the familiar, heavy thump of Anders's coat hitting the floor. He managed to wait in silence for what he thought was a reasonable amount of time, listening to buckles jangle and fabric rustle, before speaking up again. “Can I turn around?”

“Andraste's knickerweasels. _No_.”

More rustling and jangling. Garrett sighed and counted to one hundred, then back down. “How about now?”

“I will tell you when-- Maker, this has more buckles than my regular coat.” Anders muttered something under his breath. “How does that even-- oh, okay, there.” The bed creaked slightly as he sat down; Garrett shifted from foot to foot. “You're the one who demanded I do this now, you know,” Anders pointed out.

“You could be a bit quicker about it, is all I'm saying.” He could practically hear Anders rolling his eyes. “And you're the one who told me not to look. This is torture.”

“Oh, calm down, I'm almost... hm. Wait-- no. Hang on.” Anders stood up and made more intriguing rustling noises, then sighed. “Well, I guess that's right. You can look.”

Garrett spun back around, preparing to make a witty comment about patience, but the words died in his throat. He tilted his head to the side as he looked Anders up and down, gaze lingering on the brown leather gloves, the fitted black pants underneath the silver-and-blue tabard... He swallowed hard. Apparently he had a previously-undiscovered appreciation for men in uniform. Or maybe it was just this man in this uniform.

Anders shifted in place. “Well?” he asked, fidgeting with the belt a bit.

Garrett shook his head to clear it. “I was once told that the attractiveness of an outfit is directly proportional to how much you want to take it off someone.”

“And?”

He all but launched himself across the room, knocking Anders back a step, and kissed him hard, one hand tangled in the other man's hair. His other hand slid down Anders's arm, over to his waist, up his chest. “How complicated were the buckles again?” Garrett finally asked when they came up for air.

“Very,” Anders replied dryly. Garrett started working on the ones nearest his hand; Anders tried to brush him off. “Don't tear this, Neria will kill me.”

Garrett tugged at the armor. “Off.”

Anders stared at him incredulously. “You make me go through all the effort of putting the damn thing on just so that you can take it off three seconds later--”

“I like unwrapping things.” Garrett grinned at him. “Off.”

“I have no idea why I put up with you sometimes,” Anders said, belying his own words as he brought a gloved hand up to brush the side of Garrett's face. 

The feel of leather against his skin sent a thrill through him, and Garrett almost shivered. “The gloves can stay on,” he muttered and leaned in to nip at Anders's throat.

Anders chuckled, low and dark, and ran his fingers along the side of Garrett's neck. “You know,” he said, tipping his head back a bit to give Garrett easier access, “most of the uniform could stay on, really. Just so long as nothing gets torn.”

“I make no promises,” Garrett replied and grabbed his belt, dragging him over to the bed. 

Hours later, they made their way back downstairs, leaning against each other and giggling through the halls to the dining room. Dinner was already underway when they walked in; Bethany caught Garrett's eye and waved him over to the Warden's table. “Saved you two seats,” she said, gesturing at the chairs beside her. “Where'd you go, anyway?”

Garrett cleared his throat and looked away. Anders shrugged. “Trying on the new uniform,” he replied blandly.

“Oh! Did you like it?” Alistair asked, leaning forward to look at him.

Garrett pressed a hand to his forehead and willed himself not to blush. It wasn’t like his relationship with Anders was a secret or anything. Still, he didn’t exactly want the details of their afternoon shared over dinner. “You know, I didn't at first,” Anders replied as he picked up a plate. “But Garrett brought me around.”

Bethany groaned and covered her ears. “Not listening,” she muttered. “I am _not listening._ ”

Alistair appeared oblivious to the innuendo. “Why aren’t you wearing it now?”

“Because I don't think Garrett would have made it through the meal if I had.” Anders grinned smugly; Bethany squeezed her eyes shut and started muttering something under her breath. Garrett buried his face in his hands and debated the merits of sliding under the table. Probably not a good idea. Bethany might kick him in the face instead of the shins.

“Why wouldn’t he-- oh. _Oh_.” Understanding finally dawned on Alistair, and he turned a rather brilliant shade of red. “I, uh. I see.”

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow at Anders. Anders glanced at him, then Garrett, then leaned towards the archer. “I know you were complaining about the armor not being good for stealth,” he muttered, “but if the Hawkes are anything alike, then you _really_ ought to try wearing it around Bethany--”

He cut off with a yelp as Garrett elbowed him in the side. Garrett glowered at him; Anders fluttered his eyelashes innocently. Further down the table, Surana gave into a fit of giggles and slumped over, her head buried in her arms. “Dammit, Anders,” Garrett muttered and grabbed a plate. “You're lucky you're cute.”

“I really am.”

Bethany cautiously lowered her hands. “Is it safe?”

Anders glanced up from buttering a roll and nodded. “Yes, we're done talking about how your brother and I spent the afternoon--” 

Garrett clapped his hand over Anders's mouth. “Shush.” Anders responded by licking his hand. Garrett rolled his eyes; as if that was going to work, given where their tongues and hands had been at varying points. “You're going to have to try harder than that.” Anders shrugged and stuck the buttered roll to the back of his hand. _That_ was a bit gross. Garrett shook the roll loose and grabbed a napkin while Anders grinned triumphantly. 

“No food fights, kids,” Surana called.

Alistair leaned one elbow on the table and sighed nostalgically. “Ah, it's almost like the good old days,” he said. “Except we're indoors. And the food's better. And there isn’t a blight threatening to destroy everything we know and love.”

“And Neria's elf gal ain't here,” Oghren added.

Alistair's smile became a bit strained. “There're a lot of people missing,” he agreed. Surana absently touched her earring, and Alistair looked away, pained longing written all over his face. Garrett winced in sympathy. He knew from experience that unrequited crushes were rather singularly agonizing.

“Stop moping,” Anders said, poking Garrett in the ribs. “And eat something. Healer's orders.” He glanced at Bethany for a split second and grinned wickedly. “After all, you used an awful lot of energy today--”

Bethany threw her napkin at him and clapped her hands over her ears again. Garrett sighed. “I give up,” he declared. Anders laughed and bumped their shoulders together, eyes sparkling. Garrett shook his head and leaned over to brush a light kiss to Anders’s cheek. “You’re impossible,” he murmured. Anders smiled and looked away as his ears turned red. Garrett smirked, then turned back to his meal.

“How about now? Is it safe now?”

“Yes, Bethany.”

*

_Satinalia 9:32 Dragon_

Anders didn't have a lot of personal experience with gifts, either giving or receiving. He'd gotten presents as a child, before the fire and the Templars and the Circle. But he'd been too young to be expected to give gifts to anyone aside from the occasional pretty rock he'd found for his mother. And in the Circle, mages had so few things that they actually _owned_ , much less things that they could give to others. Some had tried; there'd been a few mages who wrote stories or made sketches for the people they cared about. Karl had given him a folded-paper cat after his Harrowing, left tucked under his pillow in his new room. Three weeks later, Karl was gone, shipped off to the Gallows, and Anders became rather soured on the whole concept of gifts.

Outside the tower, though, gifts were expected on certain holidays, something that Anders had only realized a few days ago when Garrett had complained good-naturedly over breakfast about finding a Satinalia present for Carver. Anders had laughed along, then dashed off to find Neria and throw himself on her tender mercies. She'd talked him down from a half-formed, panicked plan to get “accidentally” lost in the woods for a week to avoid the holiday altogether and promised to help him figure out who he needed to get gifts for and what to get them. 

Ironically, now that he'd survived majority of the gift-exchanging, Anders sort of felt like he needed to get Neria a thank-you present. She had a real knack for figuring out what people would like. His fellow Wardens had been quite pleased with his gifts, and Anders had acquired a few useful trinkets, books and cat toys and a bottle of very nice brandy from Oghren. Now there was just one person left to give a present to-- and Garrett was nowhere to be found.

Anders cast another desperate glance around the crowded dining hall and frowned. Neria had opened the feast and celebration to the entire village of Vigil's Keep; several heavily-laden tables stood against one wall, and the sounds of conversation and laughter echoed off the ceiling. About a third of the room had been cleared of all furniture to create a makeshift dance floor, and the troupe warming up in the corner added to the cacophony. If Garrett was actually in the room, Anders would probably have to leave the doorway in order to find him. He sighed and passed the scroll tube back and forth between his hands.

“Looking for Garrett?” Bethany asked, appearing at his side.

He heaved a sigh of relief and turned to her. “Yes-- and you look _lovely_ tonight, by the way,” Anders said with a smile. Bethany's hair was pinned up, a few tendrils artfully falling around her face, and she blushed a bit as she ran a hand down the skirt of her red wool gown. A gold and pearl pendant hung around her neck. “Who's that from?” Anders asked, gesturing at it.

She blushed deeper. “Nathaniel,” she said.

Anders grinned. “Lucky you.”

Bethany giggled and shook her head. “I think Garrett's still in his office,” she said. “Do try to convince him to come and have a bit of fun?”

“Am I allowed to knock him unconscious and haul him in here as part of the 'convincing'?”

Bethany nodded. “Absolutely.”

Anders chuckled and pushed the door open again. “See you in a few minutes then, very likely dragging your brother by the ankles.”

She waggled her fingers at him as he ducked back into the hall. Anders blew out a breath, his ears ringing a bit in the sudden quiet, and set off towards Garrett's office.

“I know, I know, I'm almost done,” Garrett said without looking up from his writing when Anders pushed the door open. 

Anders smirked and shut the door behind him. “Bethany's given me permission to knock you out and carry you to the party, if need be.”

Garrett glanced up at him and grinned. “Just two minutes,” he said. “Surana needs this report before she and Alistair leave.”

“They're here for another couple of days, aren't they?” Anders asked. He awkwardly rolled the scroll tube between his hands, then caught himself and stopped.

“They leave the day after tomorrow,” Garrett said, scribbling quickly. “And since I am very likely going to be completely _useless_ tomorrow, I need to get this done...” He trailed off and dipped his quill in the inkwell.

Anders sighed and shifted his weight, glancing around the office. Still depressingly empty, even after all this time, although there was something new on one of the shelves. Anders walked over and peered at the wooden statue. “Is this a griffon?” he asked, picking it up.

“Yeah,” Garrett said. “It's from Carver. I'm pretty sure there's some kind of subtle insult intended there, I'm just not quite sure what it is yet.”

Anders glanced back at him. “Wait. Carver's actually a carver?”

“I know, right?” Garrett grinned without pausing in writing. “He picked it up at Ostagar. I mock him about it whenever the opportunity presents himself.”

Anders chuckled and looked back at the statue. “It's nice, actually,” he said, replacing it on the shelf.

“Yeah. He's gotten good at it.” Garrett signed the paper with a flourish and triumphantly tossed the quill onto his desk. “Done!”

“Good!” Anders took a deep breath, steeling himself, and held out the scroll tube. “For you.”

Garrett looked a bit surprised, smiling faintly as he opened it. Anders tried not to fidget too noticeably. “Oh, wow,” Garrett murmured as he unrolled the thick parchment, revealing a detailed map of the arling. “Thank you.”

Anders shrugged, warmth blooming in his chest, and he smiled crookedly. “I figured you could hang it on a wall in here,” he said, gesturing at the office. “Make it look a little less desolate.”

Garrett grinned and set it back on his desk, then crouched down and pulled open a drawer. “This is for today,” he said, holding out a small leather pouch in the palm of his hand, “and this is for your birthday-- which, by the way, you failed to mention. I had to find out when it was from Surana.” He held up a larger, cloth-wrapped item, balancing it against his chest.

Anders huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “I didn't really think to tell anyone,” he said. “We never did much for birthdays in the Circle.”

Garrett frowned briefly. “Well, you're not in the Circle,” he said. “Birthdays are important out here. For example, mine is on the last day of Drakonis. Plenty of time for you to figure out what to get me.”

“Duly noted,” Anders replied, rolling his eyes. “Which one do I get first?”

“Birthday. It's heavier.” Garrett handed him the package; Anders carefully unwound the fabric, letting it fall away from a metal-and-glass oil lamp. “The one you have now looks... well, a bit dangerous,” Garrett explained. “I've been living in fear of the day that you light it and the entire nightstand goes up.”

“Pounce knocks it over when it's not lit,” Anders said, studying the delicate engravings of stars and moons on the metal. His current lamp was a simple clay dish; sufficient for his purposes, but after a few months with an inquisitive cat, it had gotten a bit cracked. This was much better.

“You can leave it in here, grab it after the party,” Garrett suggested. Anders nodded and set it on the desk, and Garrett held out the pouch, looking a bit nervous. Anders opened it and tipped it into his cupped palm. A single earring fell out, a gold stud with a piece of dark, polished amber on the end. “This is going to sound incredibly cheesy,” Garrett said, “but it reminded me of your eyes.”

Anders chuckled, trying to ignore how hot his face and ears had suddenly gotten. It was ridiculous, the things that actually got to him sometimes. “It's great,” he said. “Thanks.” On impulse, he reached up and removed the gold hoop in his ear, quickly switching it out for the new one. “How's it look?”

Garrett reached out and brushed his thumb against Anders's earlobe. “Very nice,” he said, sliding his fingers down Anders's jaw, and it was the easiest thing in the world for Anders to lean forward and kiss him. Garrett was downright glowing when he pulled back. “C'mon. I don't want Bethany to send out a search party.”

“She'd probably assume we'd just gotten distracted by each other and weren't coming to the party at all, actually,” Anders said as he followed Garrett back into the hallway.

“True. And that idea definitely has merit for later.” Garrett flashed another bright grin at him and grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together. Anders grinned back, a little hesitant, and swallowed hard as they approached the doors to the dining hall. Holding hands in bed was one thing, but out where everyone could see... He shook himself mentally. Everyone here knew about their relationship. There was nothing to hide.

Sound and light washed over him as Garrett pushed the door open. The next hour passed in an increasingly tipsy blur; Anders found himself dragged from Garrett's side, offering a sheepish grin as Neria escorted him away. He wasn't quite sure why Neria found it so important that he tell Alistair about what he'd named the staff she'd given him, or why Lamppost in Winter made Alistair turn bright red. Then there was a series of grateful soldiers and guards and villagers, all people he'd healed in the past year, only a few of whom he actually remembered. He found Sigrun lurking in the corner, and they spent some time snickering over her increasingly ludicrous plans for pickpocketing the guests and evading the guards afterward. “Not that I'd actually do it,” she promised, “but it's not a bad idea to stay sharp.”

The musicians were in full swing by the time Anders found Garrett again, lurking near the edge of the dance floor and sipping wine with a certain amount of resentment. “Waiting for someone to ask you to dance?” Anders asked, bumping his shoulder against Garrett's.

“Maker, no,” Garrett replied. “I can't dance. _They_ can, though.” He nodded at Bethany and Nathaniel, who were in fact sweeping gracefully around the dance floor.

Anders rolled his eyes and grabbed Garrett's elbow, leading him to one of the benches against the wall. “I think that between you and Lieutenant The-Sword-Isn't-Compensation-I-Swear, Nathaniel knows to behave himself.” Where the Hawke brothers could see, anyway.

“Did you _see_ the necklace he gave her?” Garrett retorted.

“Yes. It's very pretty.”

Garrett hmphed and took another sip of wine. They sat in companionable silence, watching the rest of the party; Anders leaned his head on Garrett's shoulder, and Garrett tapped his fingers against Anders's knee in time to the music. “Hm,” Garrett said after a while. “When did that happen?”

“When did what happen?”

Garrett gestured at the far side of the dance floor, where Carver was chatting with Sigrun, one hand behind his back. Even at this distance, Anders could tell the younger man was blushing. “I do believe my little brother has a crush,” Garrett declared, grinning.

Anders chuckled and took another sip of wine. Across the room, Carver moved his hand from behind his back, offering what looked like a wooden flower to Sigrun. She beamed brightly and cradled it carefully in her hands, then said something to Carver and dashed off. Carver gazed after her with a decidedly lovesick expression. “Oh, I know that look,” Garrett murmured. “That's the look he used to give Peaches. He's smitten, all right.”

Anders almost choked on his wine. “ _Peaches_?”

“Girl back in Lothering,” Garrett said with a laugh. “My hand to the Maker, that was her given name. Peaches.”

“Please tell me she had a sister named Grapes or something.”

Garrett shook his head. “Only child. Carver was quite taken with her.” He sighed heavily. “Unfortunately for all involved, she was utterly besotted with _me_ , and nothing would persuade her that I was never going to be interested. I think she was determined to be the one woman I'd make an exception for.”

Anders laughed and drained his wine glass. He leaned over to set it on a nearby table, then settled back against Garrett's side. “So, just out of curiosity,” he asked, “have you ever... done anything with a woman?”

Garrett shrugged. “Nothing beyond kissing,” he replied. “And that was only because all the other boys my age kept going on about how great it was. I was not very impressed.”

“Fair enough.”

“You're not going to tell me that I'm missing out?” Garrett teased.

“Nope.” Anders shook his head. “I probably _could_ make a pretty persuasive case, I think, but I don't actually want to convince you. You might run off with a pretty sergeant or something.”

Garrett laughed and leaned against him, nuzzling at his hair. “Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere.”

Anders smiled faintly, then looked away, trying to ignore the familiar way his stomach was twisting itself into knots. The reassurance should have made him happy, and it did, somewhere behind the mild feeling of panic. He wasn't sure if he wanted to run or latch onto Garrett and never let go. He glanced around the room and caught a glimpse of Bethany's red dress; Nathaniel had his arm around her waist as he led them to the nearest door. Anders made a mental note to hold Bethany in debt for this, then turned back to Garrett and leaned in to kiss him.

Garrett hummed against his lips, one hand coming up to his shoulder. “What was that for?”

Anders shrugged. “Do I need a reason?” he replied with a crooked, breathless smile, feeling almost giddy. He was rarely, if ever, the one to initiate public affection, and now here he was, snogging Garrett in front of the entire keep. Bethany _definitely_ owed him for this.

“Not at all,” Garrett murmured and leaned in for another kiss. The second one felt a little less scary, and Anders found himself thinking that maybe he could get used to this.

*

_12 Firstfall 9:32 Dragon_

Garrett blew out a breath and shifted position against the wall. “You sure it’s a good idea for me to be here?” he asked, glancing at Varel.

The seneschal nodded. “They don’t know that you’re…” He trailed off and glanced at the door. “You know. Considering your position, it would be strange for you _not_ to be here.”

“I know.” Garrett folded his arms. “But if she walks in here, points at me, and screeches 'maleficar!', I can't be held responsible for my actions.”

Varel snorted and rolled his eyes. “Just don't give her a reason to suspect, and we'll all be fine.”

Garrett sighed. He kept hearing his father's voice, telling him to stay away from the Chantry unless they were together, to never talk to the priests or Templars beyond a brief greeting, to never, ever draw attention to himself.

Spymaster of Amaranthine was drawing some attention, it seemed.

The door swung open, and Garrett straightened up slightly. “Sister Julienne, sers,” the servant said, ushering a serene-looking woman with graying brown hair into the room.

Varel stood and inclined his head towards her. “Good day to you, Sister,” he said and gestured at one of the chairs in front of his desk. “I hope the journey here wasn't too taxing?”

“Not taxing, simply an inconvenience,” she replied without a hint of amusement. Her gaze flicked to Garrett, then back to Varel. “Is the hulking brute in the corner supposed to intimidate me, Seneschal?”

Garrett blinked. He'd been called many things in his life, but 'hulking' and 'brute' were both new. Varel cleared his throat. “This is Garrett Hawke, the arlessa's--”

“Pet spy.” She looked him up and down, then frowned. “The one who botched the investigation of Bann Esmerelle. Yes, I've heard of you.”

Garrett smiled broadly, teeth clenched, his fingers slowly digging into his arms. “I'm flattered, Sister.”

“Don't be.” Julienne turned her attention back to Varel. “Do you know why I'm here, Seneschal?” Varel opened his mouth to reply; she continued speaking, apparently not interested in an answer. “I'm here because three Templars are dead, and the Order has completely botched their own inquiry into the matter. Not surprising. They're soldiers, not investigators. I haven't read any of the reports on Ser Rylock's murder. I want to hear what you have to say, and then I'll see how well your story matches.”

Varel glanced at him. “Hawke?”

Garrett exhaled quietly and nodded. “According to the arlessa, she and the others entered the warehouse--”

“Which others?”

Garrett narrowed his eyes at her. “Three other Wardens: Nathaniel Howe, Kristoff, and Anders.”

“And what business did four Grey Wardens have in an abandoned warehouse?” Julienne leaned back in her chair and regarded him expectantly, one eyebrow ever so slightly arched.

Garrett's father had often advised him to tell the truth, because it was less to remember. On the other hand, after repeating a lie so often, it became easier to recall than the truth. “The arlessa had been asked to investigate reports of lyrium smugglers,” he replied. “She'd apparently found evidence that they were operating out of that warehouse.”

Julienne nodded. “I suppose that speaking with those who were actually in the warehouse would be too much to ask?”

“Kristoff died during the siege,” Varel said, “and as the Warden-Commander is currently absent from the keep, I'm afraid I cannot grant permission for either of the remaining Wardens to answer any questions.” He paused for a moment. “I apologize.”

She snorted. “I'm sure you do.” With a sigh, she looked back at Garrett. “And in the warehouse...?”

“They found Ry-- Ser Rylock and her contemporaries dead,” he said. “A cursory investigation revealed a trapdoor concealed in the warehouse. At that time, the arlessa decided to turn the matter over the guard and the Templars.” Lucky for him that some of the smugglers had used that warehouse for a time, otherwise their story never would have held water.

“Hm.” Julienne drummed her fingers on her arm. “And I suppose the guard found evidence of lyrium smuggling on Rylock's person, thus leading to the Templars chasing dwarves around for the past few months?”

Garrett nodded. “That's what the reports have said.”

She stared at him for several long seconds. “It's strange,” she began, “that the dwarves wouldn't simply admit that she was working with them. It would get the Templars off their backs.”

“And bring down the attention of the guard,” Garrett immediately answered. “Smugglers generally don't roll over on their contacts, not unless a _lot_ of coin's involved. Besides,” he smirked, “if they admit to working with one Templar, it might lead to a broader investigation within the Chantry. They might lose other... clients.”

“I don't care for your implications, Hawke,” Julienne said flatly. “Nor do I care for how _convenient_ this all is. A Templar seeking an apostate and wanted murderer suddenly turns up dead and with connections to lyrium smuggling.”

Garrett shrugged. “She was making false accusations,” he said. “A person rarely tells just one lie.” The words were out before he could stop them; Varel, to his credit, managed not to cringe.

“Indeed,” Julienne drawled. “And how can you be so certain her accusations were false? The only testimonies we have about the deceased Templars are from two _mages_ , who certainly would not be inclined to tell the truth about the death of their captors.” She pursed her lips. “The only non-mage who witnessed any of it also ended up dead.”

“Mhari died a Warden,” Varel cut in, leaning forward over his desk. “And with honor.”

Julienne didn't look impressed. “The mage Anders is notorious for his refusal to accept the Maker's intentions,” she said. “He would face severe punishment upon his return to the Circle. He had motive and opportunity.”

“The Templars were killed by darkspawn,” Garrett said. “Not by magic. There is, in fact, a noticeable difference.”

Julienne sighed and laced her hands together in front of her. “The Chantry has only the utmost respect for the Grey Wardens, especially in light of their recent victories,” she said. “And we are aware of the laws that protect those within their ranks. But we are all bound by a higher law: that of the Maker.” She pressed her lips together in a thin line. “If this matter cannot be resolved by His servants within Amaranthine, the Revered Mother will have no choice but to seek outside counsel. You must sincerely consider whether protecting the apostates here is worth what that will do to the arling.”

Garrett just barely managed to keep from flinching. Apostates, plural. She knew-- or at least suspected-- that there were others. “There are no apostates here,” Varel lied smoothly. “All mages at the keep are here with the Chantry's sanction.”

Julienne raised her eyebrows. “For now.” She laced her fingers together and sighed. “I have also been tasked with discussing the arlessa’s contributions to the Chantry, monetary and otherwise. I presume you are permitted to discuss such things, Seneschal?”

“Certainly,” Varel said with a glance at Garrett.

He took the hint and straightened up. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, inclining his head towards Julienne.

“Gladly.”

Garrett didn’t bother with a smile or a parting-one liner. Better for her to think he was just a mildly incompetent adviser than an actual threat. The less attention the Chantry paid him, the better. He let the door quietly close before raking a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. Right. He needed to shore up the lyrium smuggling angle, maybe find out if there _were_ any Templars actually involved in smuggling. He needed to find out what the Chantry knew about the mages at the keep. He needed to stop standing in the hallway and go do _something_.

The door to his office was cracked when he reached it; Garrett cautiously pushed it open, then relaxed when he saw Anders lounging at his desk. “If your boots are on any of my papers, I’m going to make you re-write them,” he said, shutting the door behind him.

Anders leaned over to peer at the desk. “I moved everything out of the way,” he said. “Your precious notes should be fine.” He gave Garrett a quick, tense smile. “How’d your meeting go?” Garrett widened his eyes and blew out an exasperated breath. “That well, huh?” 

Garrett walked around the desk and leaned against it. “She’s certain that you and Surana killed your Templar escort,” he said, shaking his head. “And she’s not entirely sold on Rylock as a lyrium smuggler.”

“Ah.” Anders looked at the door and swallowed hard. “What—what now?”

“I need to find out what the Chantry knows,” he replied. “I’ll probably have to go back to Amaranthine and start slinging coin around. Lot of desperate people right now, somebody’s gotta be willing to sell out the Revered Mother for a handful of silver.”

Anders huffed out a bitter laugh. “Hopefully,” he murmured. “And what should _I_ be doing?”

Garrett shrugged. “Just keep your head down. The fact that you’re a Warden should stall them.”

“Until when? They give up?” Anders shook his head and swung his feet to the ground. “They’re not going to let this go, Garrett. I told you, the Chantry won’t _ever_ accept a free mage. Even Neria won’t be safe from them, not forever. They’re going to keep coming after me no matter what you do. I--” He snapped his mouth shut, silencing himself, and stared holes into the desk.

He had to be wrong. He _had_ to. Eventually they’d be able to get the Chantry to leave them alone. Garrett just had to find something to make them back off. “Hey.” Garrett reached out and brushed his fingers against Anders’s chin, turning him to face him. “I’m not gonna let them take you.”

Anders leaned into the touch with a quiet sigh. “You won’t be able to stop them.”

“Sure I can.” Garrett smirked. “If I can have my desk back.”

Anders scrunched up his nose at him, then stood, gesturing at the chair with a flourishing bow. Garrett sat down and made a show of fussing with his papers. Anders chuckled and shook his head. “I’m gonna go hide out in my room for a while,” he said. “Any idea how long the sister will be here?”

“She and Varel were discussing money when I left,” Garrett said. “And if Woolsey gets involved…”

“Hours.” Anders grimaced. “Great.” He sighed. “Want to keep me company?”

“I’ve gotta look over my reports, try to work out what the Chantry knows already,” Garrett said. “Find weak points they might attack.”

Anders didn’t reply right away. “Right,” he finally murmured, moving back a step, his eyes on the ground.

“This is to keep all of us safe--”

Anders waved a hand dismissively. “I know. It’s fine,” he said in a tone that suggested the opposite.

Garrett bit back a sigh. He glanced at the stacks of paper on his desk, then up at Anders. “I could bring the reading with me?” he offered. Anders visibly brightened, a faint, surprised smile crossing his face. “But you can’t distract me.”

The faint smile turned into a familiar smirk. “Oh, Garrett,” Anders all but purred, “what could I possibly do to distract you?”

Garrett pulled open a drawer in his desk and heaved a melodramatic sigh. “Oh, yeah. This is gonna go _real_ well.”

*

_28 Firstfall 9:32 Dragon_

Anders stood by the infirmary window and watched as Garrett and Varel spoke, their cloaks pulled tight against the cold. A horse stood placidly behind Garrett, its reins held by a rather annoyed-looking soldier. Varel clapped Garrett on the shoulder, then retreated towards the relative warmth of the keep. Garrett turned towards the horse, and even at this distance, Anders could see him sigh. Anders scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

Garrett said something to the soldier, who handed over the reins and darted away, then he glanced up towards the keep. Anders waved at him; Garrett smiled and waved back, then swung into the saddle and rode out of the gates. Anders sighed and tried to feel somewhat less like the bereft maiden watching her knight-champion ride off to war in those wretched books he and Sigrun kept trading.

It was Garrett's third trip to Amaranthine in two weeks. He kept meeting with contacts and agents and other assorted shady people, all in an effort to find some way of getting the Chantry to back off. Or at least to stall them until Surana got back. And every time he left, Anders couldn't help but fear that this would be the time that he wouldn't come back.

He snorted, breath misting on the window, and let his forehead thump against the cold glass. Clearly he needed to stop reading those trashy romances. They weren't doing his mind any favors.

“Anders.”

Anders tried not to cringe and turned from the window. “Hello, Justice.” The only reason the spirit sought him out in the infirmary was for... repairs. Kristoff's corpse was decaying rapidly, beyond the point where magic could do anything, pieces breaking off and breaking down. Anders had removed most of the internal organs, a process that had left him retching and put him off food for almost two days. “How're you?”

Justice shook his head. “There is a tear,” he said, gesturing at his chest. “Can you...?”

Anders grimaced. “I'll see what I can do,” he said. Justice sat down on one of the cots while Anders went to his workbench and gathered supplies. Anders dragged a chair over and sat down across from Justice, breathing shallowly through his mouth as the spirit removed his armor. Justice's chest was crisscrossed in stitches, padded out with fabric stuffed into the empty cavity. There was a short tear just below his ribs, the sort of injury that Anders would just slap a poultice onto if it were a living person. But with Justice... small gashes turned into long tears with surprising speed. And Anders had no desire to spend more time than necessary stitching him back together.

He drew in a couple breaths, then picked up the needle and thread and leaned in, trying very hard not to think about what he was doing. “I repulse you,” Justice said, holding utterly still.

“Not you,” Anders clarified. “The rotting corpse you currently inhabit is a bit... off-putting, at times.” And the Templars were mildly upset by blood magic.

“Living mortals find the flesh of the dead foul.” Justice nodded. “I understand. It is why I spend most of my time in the cellars.”

Like a ghost, Anders thought. That's what he'd be, eventually, a skeleton and then a trapped spirit, when even the bones gave out. He frowned. Justice deserved better. “That should hold for now,” he said, tying off the thread.

“Thank you.” Justice started to put his armor back on, slowly and carefully, trying to avoid further damage to his body.

Anders walked back to his workbench and set down the needle and thread, idly tracing his fingers along a gouge in the wood. “Have you thought about trying to move into something else?” he asked, forcing himself to keep his voice casual. To act like the half-formed thoughts flitting through his mind weren't utter insanity.

“I do not know what I could inhabit,” Justice said. “Another deceased body would lead to the same problems. And other options would limit my ability to fight injustice.”

“What about a living host? You mentioned that.” His stomach clenched as he glanced at Justice out of the corner of his eye.

Justice shook his head. “To impose on another person in such away would be wrong,” he said. “An act of a demon.”

Anders exhaled slowly and turned, leaning against the workbench with his arms folded. “If you had a better body,” he said, “one that wasn't falling to pieces, what would you do?”

“Work to free mages from their unjust oppression,” Justice said, just a touch of confusion coloring his voice. “Have I not told you this?”

“How?” Anders pressed. “How would you do that?”

Justice faltered, frowning at the floor. “I am not certain,” he said slowly. “It has become clear that the Chantry cannot be reasoned with as things are now. Perhaps... I would seek out free mages. Bring them together. Help them free others. If enough mages are free from oppression, the Chantry would see their error and change their ways.”

Well. It was a decent plan, up to that last part, because if a large group of free mages started demanding better treatment they'd all end up dead. But perhaps other apostates could be found through the mage's collective. Maybe... “If someone were to... offer themselves as a host,” Anders began, “willingly take you in... what would you do?”

“It would depend on the person, I think,” Justice finally said after a long, thoughtful pause.

Anders swallowed hard. “What if it were me?”

Silence filled the room as Justice stared at him. “You would do this for me?” he asked.

“I-I-I've thought about it,” Anders said. “I mean-- I'm not-- I'm not saying I'd do it right now. But. I-I guess...” He sighed. “You're my friend, Justice. You understand what mages-- what people like me suffer. You want to _help_ and that-- that means a lot to me.” He swallowed hard and pressed his hands flat against his legs. This was the most honest he'd been with anyone in... a while. Even Garrett didn't know he'd been thinking about this.

Justice looked away, eyes wide with surprise. “I am at a loss,” he said. “That you would even consider this means a great deal to me. But I... I do not know if it is the best decision.”

“Yeah.” Anders nodded. “I-I'm not sure, either. But I guess... I mean. We can think about it. I'll keep doing research. See what I can find out.” Not that he expected to find much information about mages sharing headspace with spirits, other than decapitation strategies. Part of him hoped he wouldn't find anything. The idea scared him. He still thought it might be the right thing to do, and the right thing did tend to be rather frightening, in his experience. That didn't make him feel any better.

“I will continue my studies as well.” Justice stood up slowly and inclined his head towards him. “Thank you, Anders. You are a true friend.”

Anders managed a tense smile and watched as Justice walked out. He exhaled slowly, staring at the ground. A true friend. He wasn't sure about that. A true friend probably wouldn't have so many doubts.

*

_7 Haring 9:32 Dragon_

“So,” Carver murmured as they made their way down the narrow, muddy path through the woods, “this doesn’t seem like a trap _at all_.”

Garrett scowled. It was dark, it was cold, it was misting, and worst of all, Carver was right. “That’s why we brought Nathaniel,” he replied. “We have backup. Sneaky, sneaky backup.”

“Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?”

“Because you have no faith in me.” Garrett looked over his shoulder and grinned at his brother. Carver rolled his eyes upward, as though offering a silent prayer to the heavens. “It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t need to have faith in you,” Carver muttered. “You’ve got enough idiotic bravado for the both of us.”

“Bravado, charm, wit, stunning good looks… I’m carrying double of an awful lot here.”

“I could cut out your tongue,” Carver offered dryly. “That’d minimize the wit.”

Garrett smirked. “I think Anders might protest. He’s got other uses for it.”

“Oh, ew. _Ew_.”

Having secured his victory, going by the overwrought gagging noises, Garrett scanned the dark forest again. They had to be getting close to the clearing. His investigations and bribes in Amaranthine had finally paid off: a servant in the Chantry's cloistered quarters took the bribe and offered to meet Garrett to exchange information. Unfortunately, the cloak-and-dagger aspects of working with a spy had gone to the man’s head, and he’d demanded that they meet in the woods at night. It had taken a fair amount of negotiating for him to accept that Garrett would be bringing anyone else as backup.

The man was either a fool or a Chantry agent. Either way, it didn’t hurt to be prepared.

“There,” Garrett said as a dim light came into view. “He said he’d have a lantern…”

“He got here before us,” Carver muttered. “He’s had time to prepare.”

Garrett sighed. Carver really needed to stop being right. It was getting annoying. “Well, we have a sneaky archer in the trees. And I’m a mage. Two secret abilities right there.”

“Unless Nathaniel’s already been caught and they have Templars,” Carver retorted.

Garrett frowned as he held a branch out of the way, waiting until Carver had ducked under it to let it go. “Nathaniel’s fine,” he said. “At least, he’d better be. Bethany will tear us limb from limb if we let anything happen to him.” He still wasn’t exactly thrilled that his baby sister was… involved with Nathaniel, but in order to keep the peace, he’d kept his opinions to himself. At home, anyway. He suspected Anders was starting to get tired of hearing about it, if the burrowing under pillows and muffled pleas to just shut up already were any indication.

“Better hope they don’t have Templars, then,” Carver murmured as they approached the clearing.

Garrett scowled again. “If they have Templars, you damn well better deal with them,” he growled. “You know the rule.” Not so much a rule as a promise, a pact made between the three of them in the days after Mother had died. The Templars couldn’t be allowed to take Bethany or Garrett alive. They’d been apostates for so long, the only fates awaiting them in a Circle were death or Tranquility. Garrett and Bethany had agreed that death was the better option, and so they’d promised, the three of them, to make sure that the Templars wouldn’t get to make the choice.

Carver was silent for several moments. “Yeah,” he finally muttered. “I know.”

Garrett took a deep breath and stepped out of the trees, squinting into the circle of light cast by the lantern. The servant, a slender, skittish man with thinning red hair, spun around to face him. “Easy, Felix,” Garrett said, holding up his hands. “Just us.”

Felix glanced at Carver, then back at him. “Only two?”

“Yeah.” Garrett patted the bag of silver tied to his belt. “I know it’s a lovely night for a chat, but why don’t you tell us what you know, I’ll pay you, and we’ll all go on our merry way?”

“What I know.” Felix rubbed his hands together and looked out at the trees. His gaze shifted, relaxing, going from anxious to deliberate, and warning flags went up in Garrett’s mind. “I know what you are, Garrett Hawke,” Felix said, and Garrett’s stomach dropped. A branch cracked loudly to his left, and he glanced to the side as two men in light armor and bearing swords stepped into view. “And I know that the Chantry’s bounty on apostates is far more than what you’re offering.”

More figures moved out of the trees. Garrett forced a broad smile onto his face and did a quick headcount. There were at least four that he could see, and judging from the unhappy hisses coming from Carver, more were moving in behind them. “You didn’t give me a chance to make a counter-offer,” he said. “I could pay you and your friends quite handsomely.”

“I doubt you could pay as well as the Revered Mother,” Felix retorted. “When she sees who we’ve caught, we’ll have enough coin to get through the winter.” He sneered. “The knife-ear apostate in the keep’s going to let us starve. That won't happen to us. Not again.”

Garrett swallowed hard. That was the problem with relying on the desperate for information: they were, in fact, desperate, and not especially loyal. He took a deep breath, hoped that Nathaniel was in position, and recited their attack signal. “Look, I’m sure we can work something out--”

There was a twanging noise from behind him, and Felix’s shoulder sprouted an arrow. He screamed in shock and pain, but Garrett was already turning, pulling his staff free from the straps on his back. He swung the bladed end out as he rolled it over his shoulder, and the two men closest to him jumped back. It gave him enough clearance to press a hand to his forehead and release a stunning blast. A couple of the men stumbled or went to their knees, but the rest kept coming. They weren't interested in Carver, or even the mystery archer peppering them with arrows. Garrett was the valuable one.

Garrett focused on the two soldiers moving towards him and stilled their air around them, holding them in place. Carver plowed into another man, taking him off his feet, and whirled towards the paralyzed men. Garrett clenched his jaw as Carver neatly and efficiently killed them, running them through with quick jerks of his sword. They didn't have a choice. If they left the men alive, they'd tell the Templars. It didn't make him feel any better about it. 

Carver twisted around and brained a dagger-wielding woman with the pommel of his sword. Nathaniel emerged from the treeline, steadily firing arrows and moving towards them. Garrett took a deep breath and reached down deep, summoning energy for rapid-fire casting. He hit the attackers who were still standing with hexes and curses, clouding their vision or putting them to sleep. At least if they were unconscious they wouldn't suffer.

An arrow whizzed past his shoulder, and Garrett swore, spinning out of the way. “Archer!” he shouted, scanning the treeline. It was too dark to see anyone there, but next to the lantern, he stood out like a beacon. He twisted the Fade around Carver's opponent, draining the other warrior's strength, and frantically scanned the woods again. Where in the Void was--

Garrett heard the wet thud of an arrow hitting flesh a split-second before the pain registered. He almost dropped his staff, just barely managing to keep a hold on it with his left hand as his right went numb. The arrow had gone almost clear through his bicep; he gritted his teeth and wished he'd learned even one fire spell. Lighting up a few trees would take care of the visibility problem.

Carver appeared at his side. “Sorry,” he said as he stabbed his blade into the dirt, then grabbed the arrow shaft and snapped it off. Garrett choked back a cry of pain, his breath hissing through his teeth.

Another arrow hit the lantern, knocking it to the ground and extinguishing the light. “Run,” Nathaniel said, suddenly close by. “I'll take care of him.  _ Run. _ ”

Carver grabbed his good arm and spun him around, aiming him at the woods, and Garrett broke into a sprint. Blood dripped from Garrett's fingers, and he could feel the arrowhead scraping against bone every time he moved his arm. “Is Nathaniel coming?” he gasped, glancing over his shoulder.

“Hope so,” Carver said and looked back as well. “Once we get to the horses we'll be fine--”

“So long as they didn't kill them,” Garrett cut in, his voice grim.

They crashed through the underbrush, favoring speed over stealth, and reached the road within minutes. Nathaniel stumbled out of the woods behind them mere seconds later. “They're dead,” he reported, and Garrett swallowed hard. Maker willing, the men would just be written off as victims of a bandit attack. Idiots. If they'd just taken his deal they'd still be alive, alive and well-paid. It didn't have to end like this.

The horses were just where they'd left them; Garrett had never been so glad to see the creatures in his life. He moved towards his mount and stumbled, staff dropping from his hand as his knees buckled. “Shit.” He grabbed at the reins to hold himself up as his vision swam.

“Garrett!” Carver ran over and wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him up. “Nathaniel, do you have a potion?”

Nathaniel fumbled at his belt pouch, then uncorked a small vial and handed it over. Garrett willed his fingers to stop shaking as he took it and downed the potion. “Thanks,” he rasped.

“Can you stand?” Carver asked, eyes wide with worry. “I can't carry your fat ass all the way back to the keep.”

Garrett laughed harshly. “That's what we've got horses for, Carver.” He turned towards his, then looked back at his staff.

“I've got it,” Carver said. “I promise not to break it. C'mon.” He helped Garrett into the saddle and tied the reins to his belt. Garrett tried to come up with some kind of witty retort, but his vision kept blurring, the number of Carvers he needed to mock varying from one to three.

Ahead of him, the other two mounted their horses. Carver balanced the staff across his knees and glanced back at Garrett. Garrett took a deep breath and grabbed the reins with his good arm, then nudged the horse's sides. It trotted after the others; tears of pain sprang into Garrett's eyes at the first step, and he clenched his jaw to keep from crying out as the horse picked up speed. 

By the time they reached the keep, Garrett was barely clinging to consciousness. His right arm and leg were both drenched in blood, and most of his attention was on breathing through the pain. Carver shouted something at Nathaniel, then ran over to Garrett's horse. “Try not to fall on me,” he muttered as he started to help him down.

Something caught on Garrett's belt, and he looked down. “Tied me on here,” he muttered. “Idiot.”

Carver snorted and untied the reins. “You'll be fine,” he said, grunting as Garrett half-collapsed against him. “If you can still call me an idiot--”

Garrett chuckled weakly. “Been doin' that my whole life,” he said. “'s habit. Could've lost the whole arm and I'd tell you when you're bein' a dumbass."

Carver shook his head as he walked them across the courtyard towards the house. “Beth's gonna have a fit,” he muttered as they neared the door.

“At least we brought Nathaniel back in one piece.” Garrett fumbled at his belt for his keys; Carver batted his hand away and pulled them off, then unlocked the door, pushing it open with his foot. Something occurred to him as they crossed the threshold, and he looked over at Carver. “Staff?”

“Nathaniel has it,” Carver said. “He's getting Anders. I didn't want to carry it and you back here.”

“You'd probably have cut my leg off.”

Carver snorted and paused in the front room, glancing at the couch and upholstered chairs. “How angry do you think Beth will be if you bleed all over them?” he asked.

“What's-- oh, holy Andraste, what happened?” Bethany ran in from the hall, her eyes wide, as she pointed Carver at the nearest chair. “Should I get Anders?”

“Nathaniel getting him,” Carver replied.

Garrett groaned as Carver eased him into the chair. “Sorry 'bout the furniture, Beth,” he muttered, letting his head fall back and his eyes close.

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped, sounding close to tears. “I'll get some bandages.”

Her footsteps retreated down the hall. Soft tapping approached, and Garrett opened his eyes as Rascal whined at him and pressed his nose against his good hand. “Hey, boy,” he mumbled, raising his hand to pat the dog's head. “Don' worry. I'll be fine.”

Rascal didn't look convinced. He sniffed at Garrett's leg, then sat down in front of him, assuming a guard position. Carver dropped down on the couch and started peeling off his armor.

Less than a minute later, the front door banged open, and Nathaniel and Anders ran in. Carver stood to take the staff from Nathaniel; Anders bolted straight past them, blanching when he got a clear look at Garrett. “Hi,” Garrett said with a weak smile. “Hope I didn't wake you.”

Anders raked a hand through his disheveled hair. “You did, actually,” he replied as he crouched at Garrett’s side. “Interrupted a very nice cuddling session between Pounce and I. I'm not sure he'll ever forgive you.” He gingerly prodded at the wound, his hands already glowing blue. 

Even so, Garrett hissed in pain, cringing, and Rascal rumbled in warning. “Go wait in my room, boy,” Garrett murmured, nudging Rascal with his foot. Rascal whined. “It's okay. I'll be there soon.” The dog sighed, then stood and walked morosely down the hall.

“Do you need a chair?” Bethany asked, coming back into Garrett's line of sight. She'd pulled on a dressing gown and tied her hair back, and she set a pile of bandages and towels down on the floor near Anders's feet.

“Yeah, thanks,” Anders said absently, his attention wholly focused on the injury. “A bowl of water and some towels would be good.”

“Towels are by your feet.”

He glanced down. “Oh. Thanks.” He turned his attention back to Garrett's arm and sighed, shaking his head. “What did you do?”

“I didn't do anything,” Garrett replied. “Somebody shot me. I was just standing there.”

Anders smirked. “You had to have done _something_ to earn getting shot at.”

“In this case, I think it was being born,” Garrett muttered.

Anders frowned at him, puzzled, then his expression darkened. “Okay, what happened?” he asked, turning his head towards the room at large.

“That's what I asked,” Bethany said, returning with a chair. “They didn't say.”

“In my defense,” Garrett put in, “I'm bleeding pretty badly over here.”

Everyone ignored him. Carver sighed and leaned back against the couch. “Garrett's informant turned out to be a trap,” he said. “He knew Garrett was a mage and wanted to collect on the bounty the Chantry has out on apostates.”

“And he brought about six of his friends,” Nathaniel said.

Bethany pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Maker.”

Nathaniel took half a step in her direction, then hesitated, glancing at Garrett and Carver. Garrett sighed. “Oh, go on, I've lost too much blood to care."

“I haven't,” Carver half-growled.

“Shut up, Carver,” Garrett muttered. Nathaniel rolled his eyes and crossed the room, then wrapped an arm around Bethany's shoulders. She leaned against his chest, her attention still fixed on her brothers.

“How'd they find out?” Anders asked, voice eerily flat.

Garrett nodded. “That's what I'd like to--” He cut off with a hiss as Anders gently moved his arm, angling his bicep over the edge of the chair. Anders winced and murmured an apology.

Carver snorted and stood up. “You haven't exactly been subtle,” he pointed out, walking over to Garrett. “The entire keep and half of Amaranthine knows you two are mages. It was only a matter of time before someone decided to make some coin off it.” He glanced at Anders. “Need me to hold him down?”

“I'm a little concerned about how eager you are to help me cause your brother a great deal of pain,” Anders deadpanned. “But, yes.” He held up a folded bandage; Garrett took it and stuffed it into his mouth, then pressed his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. “I'm really, really sorry,” Anders said, then he pressed his fingers into the wound and Garrett's arm exploded in pain.

Carver grabbed his shoulders, pinning him against the chair, holding him still while Anders pushed the arrowhead out. Garrett tried to keep from screaming, his choked-off cries muffled in the makeshift gag. After what seemed like close to forever, he heard a horrible squelching sound, then felt the cooling touch of healing magic flowing through him. He spat out the fabric and panted for breath. “Maker's blood,” he gasped, rolling his head to the side.

Anders was several shades paler than normal, his hands pressed to either side of Garrett's arm. “No, mostly just your blood, actually,” he replied, just a hint of a tremor in his voice.

“What are we going to do about this?” Nathaniel asked. 

Garrett shook his head. “I'll talk to Varel tomorrow--”

“You're not talking to Varel unless he's making a house call,” Anders interrupted as he toweled off his hands. “You lost a lot of blood. I don't want you out of bed unless absolutely necessary.” Garrett blinked at him and grinned slowly; Carver groaned and buried his face in his hands, while Bethany rolled her eyes. Anders huffed out a laugh. “I actually didn't mean it like that.”

“For once,” Garrett muttered with a smirk. 

“I'll tell Varel,” Carver offered. “I'm used to reporting to him, anyway.”

Garrett sighed. He was too tired and sore to argue or even to make a sarcastic comment while agreeing. “Okay,” he said. Carver actually looked a bit concerned at his quick agreement.

Anders gently helped Garrett to his feet, sliding an arm around his waist to keep him from pitching face-first into the floor. Garrett chuckled weakly when he saw Rascal sitting at the end of the hall; the dog stood up as they approached and walked down the hall ahead of them, nudging the door open and holding it while Anders half-carried Garrett in. “Good boy,” Garrett said. “Very good. Isn't he a good dog, Anders?”

“Yes, he is.” Anders eased Garrett into his desk chair and took a deep breath, then pressed one hand to the side of Garrett's face. “Don't scare me like that,” he murmured.

Garrett smiled. “I'm fine,” he said. “You fixed it.”

Anders sighed and leaned forward, brushing a kiss to Garrett's forehead. “I'll be right back,” he said, then slipped back into the hallway. 

Garrett could hear voices from the front room, too quiet for him to make out any words. Bethany's door creaked, and Anders chuckled, his laughter carrying down the hall. Rascal rested his head on Garrett's knee and gazed up at him mournfully. “I know,” Garrett murmured. “You'd have gotten angry at Anders if you'd stayed, though. And he can't heal with a mabari attached to his leg.” The dog whined sadly and scooted closer. 

The front door closed, and the house went quiet. Rascal stood up abruptly and trotted to the door, nudging it open again. Anders paused, balancing the bowl of water and a stack of towels in his arms, and blinked. “Thanks,” he said.

“And that's why I like dogs,” Garrett said with a smile. “They're thoughtful.”

Anders chuckled and set his armload down on the floor. “I'll give you that,” he said as he started to undo the buckles on Garrett's armor. “But that doesn't change the fact that they're also large and smelly.” Rascal whined sadly; Anders glanced back at him and shrugged. “I only speak the truth.”

Rascal huffed and practically stomped across the room. He jumped onto Garrett's bed and laid down in the middle of it, staring at them with wide, sad eyes. Garrett smirked. “You hurt his feelings.”

“I'm sure we'll both get over it.” Anders set the armor aside and carefully peeled off Garrett's blood-soaked shirt. “Ugh, that's disgusting.”

He knelt down to work on the boots next. Garrett sighed and leaned his head against the back of the chair. “Did Carver leave?” he asked, letting his eyes drift closed.

“Mm-hm.”

“And Nathaniel?”

Anders's response was a bit hesitant. “Yes.”

Garrett opened his eyes and raised his head. “Bethany?”

“I'm sworn to secrecy.” Anders looked down, occupying himself with the laces on Garrett's boots.

Garrett sighed. “If I could walk without getting dizzy...”

“You'd get in bed and go to sleep and let your sister have a life,” Anders said with a grin. He set the boots and socks aside, then set about removing Garrett's belt. Under ordinary circumstances, Anders undressing him would have him in a state of semi-frantic arousal, but Garrett sort of doubted he had enough blood for that at the moment.

Anders made a disgusted sound as he tugged Garrett's pants off and dumped them on the floor. “I think those are a lost cause,” he said.

Garrett nodded and hummed in agreement. Anders sat back on his heels and pulled the bowl of water closer. Garrett blinked, a little confused, as he dunked one of the towels in the water, then wrung it out and reached for Garrett's arm. “What're you doing?”

Anders shrugged and started wiping at the blood. “I'm not sleeping next to someone who smells like a slaughterhouse,” he replied casually. “And you'll regret it if you ruin the sheets on top of your clothes.”

“Oh.” Garrett swallowed hard and leaned his head back again, blinking into the darkness. Maybe this didn't mean so much to Anders. Maybe he did this for all his patients. Garrett sort of doubted it, though. There was too much tenderness to it, too many lingering touches and light caresses. The whole thing gave him fluttery feelings in his chest that he couldn't entirely chalk up to blood loss. 

Eventually, Anders heaved a sigh and dropped the bloody towel to the ground. “Good enough,” he said and stood, wincing when his knee popped. Garrett grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer, sliding his hand up to Anders's shoulder to tug him down for a slow, drugging kiss. “Oh, don't start that,” Anders murmured, his hands braced on the back of the chair. “No sex for at least two days.” Garrett pouted. “No,” Anders repeated, stepping back. “I'm morally obligated to make sure you heal properly.”

Garrett sighed and let Anders help him up. “You're no fun.”

“I'm lots of fun, and you know it.” Anders pointed him at the bed. “Tell your dog to move and get in bed.”

“Yes, ser.” Garrett gave Rascal a pointed look and gestured at the foot of the bed. Rascal sighed and inched down, settling in with no small amount of resentment. “You'll have to stay down there,” Garrett said as he climbed into bed. “No cuddling with Anders.”

“Please no cuddling,” Anders agreed. “From the dog, anyway.” He slid under the blankets and tugged Garrett closer. “You're allowed.”

Garrett smiled and draped an arm around Anders's waist. “I know.”

He was halfway asleep when Anders spoke again. “Garrett?”

“Mm?”

“Do you think the Templars know? About you and Bethany?”

Garrett shook his head. “If they knew, they'd have been there. No way they were going to leave the capture of a 'dangerous apostate' to a bunch of farmers.”

“Ah.” Anders traced his fingers up Garrett's arm, lingering over the fresh scar. Garrett felt a light brush of healing magic, and he wondered if Anders was even aware he was casting. “They'll find out eventually, you know.”

“Surana seems to like us well enough,” he replied. “She won't let them take us.”

“She's not _here_ ,” Anders said. “And you two aren't Wardens, she can't protect you like that. They'll--”

Garrett raised his head to look at him. Anders's eyes were wide, glinting in the dim light. “It'll be fine,” he murmured. “I've managed to avoid them for twenty-five years now. Not about to have that streak broken.” Anders didn't look convinced. Garrett brushed a kiss to his lips and nuzzled at his nose. “Go to sleep,” he said. “Worry about it in the morning.” 

Anders sighed, tightening his arms around Garrett, and mumbled something under his breath, almost too quiet to hear. “I always worry about it.”

*

_13 Haring 9:32 Dragon_

_...conatus ad alligaverit spiritus intra vas extra flammei ad defectum et ruina, ut spirius perdidit quod transierunt enim mente..._

Anders growled in frustration and slammed the book shut. Pounce jumped, startled, his claws digging into Anders's stomach. “Sorry,” he muttered, scratching the cat's head as he set the book aside. “The Tevinter Imperium is getting on my nerves again.”

Pounce blinked at him warily before curling back into a ball on his lap. Anders sighed and looked at the stack of books on his nightstand. There was very little information about spirits-- everything focused on demons and how to fight or control them. Spirit healers seemed to be the only ones who had done any research on the kinder denizens of the Fade, but Anders already knew most of that by heart. And what spirit healers did barely resembled what he was considering with Justice. It was the difference between a handshake and lovemaking, to get poetic about it.

Still, there had to be something. In Thedas's long history, _someone_ else must have had this idea. With luck, they survived long enough to write something down. Anders picked up the next book in his stack and thumbed open the table of contents. He'd only gotten through the first three entries when a knock at the door interrupted. “Yes?”

“Oh, good.” Garrett pushed open the door-- with his left hand, Anders noted, still favoring the right arm-- and stepped inside. “I've been looking for you.”

Anders closed the book and frowned. “Everything all right?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I'm fine.” Garrett sat down on the mattress and sighed. “I'm, uh, kinda bored, actually. So I thought I'd see if your strategy of harassing people until they paid attention to you had any merit.”

Anders snorted. “ _You're_ bored? Really?”

“It's been known to happen.” Garrett scuffed his boot against the floor. “I can't go back to Amaranthine now, so I have to do everything through my contacts. Which means a lot of sitting around and waiting for letters.” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his right bicep.

“Let me see.” Anders crooked his fingers at Garrett.

Garrett immediately dropped his hand. “I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

“Yes, I am!”

Anders set Pounce on his pillow, then rolled up to his knees, moving to straddle Garrett's legs. “You're unreasonably stubborn,” he said as he undid the lacing on the front of Garrett's shirt.

Garrett grinned. “I like where this is going.”

“This is a medical examination,” Anders replied crisply, but he couldn't keep a smirk off his face. He pushed Garrett's shirt off his shoulder and gently ran his fingers over the faint scar, letting faint tendrils of magic seek out any lingering injury.

With an overwrought sigh, Garrett looked away, then reached over and grabbed one of Anders's books. “Research?” he asked, turning it over one-handed so he could read the title.

Anders's hands stilled for a moment, and he hoped that none of his panic showed on his face. He knew he'd have to tell Garrett eventually, if he decided to go through with it, but... well, he'd planned on having a little more time. Or just avoiding all of it forever. That seemed like a good idea. “Mm-hm,” he replied, hoping that Garrett would just drop it. “Does this still hurt?”

“Twinges sometimes,” Garrett said and flipped the book open. Anders's eye twitched. If he made a big deal out of Garrett going through his books, Garrett would know something was wrong. On the other hand, if he kept looking at everything... “Are all of these about spirits?”

He'd do that. “Yeah, mostly.” Anders leaned back, balancing on Garrett's knees. “There isn't much else I can do-- the muscle needs to heal on its own.”

“I figured.” Garrett continued paging through the book. “What's all this for?”

“I'm trying to help Justice find another body to live in,” Anders said. It wasn't a lie, strictly speaking.

Garrett made a face. “Wouldn't putting him in another corpse just lead back to this same, disgusting, rotting problem in six months?”

“I'm looking into non-corpse options,” Anders said. 

“Like, what, a cat or something?” Garrett chuckled. “That'd actually be kinda funny. Pouncing injustice to death. Fighting for the right to nap in sunbeams.”

Anders scowled. The fact that his friend was trapped in a rotting corpse wasn't funny-- but then, Garrett had never liked Justice. He moved away from Garrett and leaned against the wall. “He wouldn't take a living creature that couldn't volunteer,” Anders said, slowly collecting his books.

Garrett snorted. “Yeah, but who'd do that?” Anders looked away, wishing he had a better poker face, and fumbled desperately for something that wasn't an outright lie. The silence went on too long, and Garrett’s eyes widened. “You-- no. You're joking. You _must_ be joking.”

“Garrett--”

“You can't be serious, Anders, this is insane!” Garrett scrambled off the bed to stare down at him. “How can you even _consider_ something like this!? Do you even know what that would do to you?”

Anders glanced at the small tower of books. “I'm looking into it.”

“And if you do this? What then?” 

Anders didn't have an answer for that. 'Fight the Chantry' was vague, huge, overwhelming-- but _something_ had to be done. Something had to change. The situations with the Templars and with Justice couldn't last. And if he didn't act, things would only get worse. It wouldn't be half-trained farmers next time, it'd be Templars, and if they were all lucky they'd just be killed where they stood. 

Garrett shook his head and raked a hand through his hair. “Anders, how could you even think this was a good idea?” he asked, almost laughing in incredulity. “The fact that he wants in your head should--”

“You're assuming this was Justice's idea.” 

That stopped him cold. Garrett stared, mouth moving silently as he struggled for words. Anders just gazed back, nervously tapping his fingers on the cover of his book. “You?” Garrett finally asked.

Anders shrugged. “It was Nathaniel's idea originally,” he said, dropping his eyes to the book in his lap. “For Justice to merge with-- with a living host. To accomplish more together than they could apart.” He swallowed hard. “But Nathaniel's not a mage. I am.”

Garrett didn't reply, and finally Anders risked a glance up at him. Garrett looked like he'd just walked in on the corpse of a loved one-- stunned and horrified and disgusted. “So you're the one who wants this,” he said, staring past Anders at the wall.

“I don't know,” Anders said. “Maybe. It's-- it's an idea. I haven't agreed to anything. Neither has Justice. We're thinking about it.” Garrett huffed out a breath and shook his head. “He's right, though,” Anders continued. “The way I've been treated, the way we've _all_ been treated--” he gestured at Garrett's arm, “--it's not right. It's unjust. And maybe together we can do something about it.”

“Why does 'together' have to mean sharing head space?” Garrett demanded. 

“What else is he supposed to do?” Anders snapped. “He can't just keep jumping from corpse to corpse, and he's trapped on this side of the Veil. He can't go home.” He swallowed hard. “He's my _friend_ , Garrett, and I know you've never gotten that but I want to help him.”

Another long silence. “And if I'm not comfortable with my lover becoming an abomination?” Garrett asked, voice flat. “What then?”

Anders curled his fingers around the edge of the book. He wasn't sure what scared him more-- the idea that he might finally do what the Templars had hoped for every time they'd locked him away and become a monster bent on revenge... or what Garrett had called him. 'My lover' came dangerously close to lines that couldn't ever, ever be crossed. “I-I wouldn't be--”

“A mage playing host to a spirit, Anders, what else would it be?” Garrett snapped. “I can't believe you're even thinking about this.”

Anders narrowed his eyes at him. “So, what, you'll leave me again if I do this?” he sneered. “Are you really stooping to blackmail to control me?”

“This isn't about controlling you!” Garrett shouted, throwing his arms in the air. He winced and dropped his right arm quickly. “I don't know what you'd be if you did this. I don't know if you'd even be you. It's a bad fucking idea, Anders. There have to be better ways of dealing with the Chantry if that's what you want to do.”

It wasn't just about the Chantry. Garrett didn't get it. “I want to help my friend,” Anders said.

Garrett stared at him, jaw clenched, hands slowly curling into fists at his sides. “Fine,” he replied, his voice like ice. “If that's who matters to you.” 

He turned towards the door, angrily yanking his shirt back up over his shoulder. “Garrett, wait--” Anders started as he slid off the bed. If he could just explain--

The door slammed shut, hard enough to rattle the window, and Anders sank back onto the edge of the mattress. Gone. Garrett was gone again, had left him again, and while part of him knew that he should probably run after him, he couldn't make himself move. Anders wrapped his arms around his stomach and stared at the door. If Neria was here, he could talk to her about this whole mess-- but no, she'd probably react the same way Garrett had. Tell him that he was talking about becoming an abomination, that he was making a huge mistake.

He wasn't entirely sure they were wrong.

Pounce mewled and pawed at his arm; Anders scooped up the cat and hugged him to his chest. Pounce draped himself over Anders's shoulder, purring, and sniffed at his ear. “Good kitty,” Anders murmured, leaning his cheek against the soft fur. “Very good kitty.”

*

By the time Garrett finished his circuit of the battlements, the sun had set and his hands felt like they were frozen. The walk had served its intended purpose, though. He didn't feel quite so much like punching the wall until his knuckles bled. He still thought Anders's idea was still utterly insane, obviously. Garrett shook his head as he made his way up the stairs to the second floor. He had to stay calm while talking about this. Shouting at Anders wasn't going to get him to see reason.

Garrett reached Anders's door and raised a hand to knock, then hesitated. He couldn't hear anything from inside the room, and it had been a few hours. Anders could have left, gone to the library or the dining hall or the tavern. He shook his head to clear it and rapped on the door. No other way to know.

“It's open,” Anders called. Garrett pushed the door open and slipped inside, leaning against the solid wood once it was closed. Anders was sitting cross-legged on his bed, rolling a small spellwisp across the blankets for Pounce to chase. The cat was crouched low, watching the glowing orb with enormous eyes, then leapt. Anders waved his hand and the wisp vanished. Pounce spun around, looking for the ball of light, then dove to the floor to attack a stray sock. Anders kept his gaze on the blankets, his shoulders hunched and his fingers twitching on his knees. 

Garrett exhaled slowly. “I'm sorry I left like that,” he said.

Anders finally looked over at him. “That's very specific.”

“I'm not going to apologize for things I'm not sorry for.” Garrett pushed off the door and perched on the edge of the bed. “It's a bad idea, Anders. It's a really bad idea.”

Anders sighed. “Sometimes I think so,” he said.

“And the other times?” Garrett asked. Anders narrowed his eyes at him; Garrett held up his hands. “I mean it, I-- do you really think it's gotten that bad here? I know the Templars are--”

“No, Garrett, you don't know,” Anders said, sounding bone-weary. “They've decided I'm guilty of apostasy and murder and Maker only knows what else. And when they come for me, I will be _lucky_ to end up dead.”

They’d had this conversation before, or parts of it, but Garrett had always let him change the subject. He stared at Anders for several long seconds before speaking again. “And if you're not lucky?”

Anders's startled gaze flicked up to him. “The Aeonar,” he said. “Or maybe I'll get the brand. They make exceptions, sometimes. You hear stories...” He half-raised a hand to his forehead, then let it fall back to the mattress. “I'd rather die than end up like that.” He looked away and shook his head, a mirthless laugh escaping him. “Or, flames, maybe they'd just go back to their standard punishment for me and dump me back in a hole to _rot_.”

“Anders.” Garrett scooted closer and reached out to cover one of Anders's hands with his own. “What did they do to you?”

Anders stared at their hands for a few seconds. “You want that alphabetically or categorically?” he replied.

Garrett sighed. “Anders--”

“Last time they caught me, they locked me in solitary for a year.” Anders's gaze flickered around the room. “Dumped me in a cell about a third this size and just... left me there. In the dark.” He licked his lips, his hand twitching under Garrett's. “First time was two weeks, then a month, then two months, then... then a year. They wouldn't make me Tranquil after I was Harrowed, and beating me bloody--” he shrugged one shoulder, a silent indication of his scarred back, “didn't work, so they just kept locking me up.”

Garrett blinked in stunned silence, trying to wrap his mind around the idea of a _year_ in solitary. A year without seeing or speaking to anyone else, a year in one tiny room, a year in darkness... he couldn't imagine it. That Anders had come out of that alive, much less sane, seemed almost miraculous. “A year?” he breathed.

“They wanted me to--” Anders paused and looked away, his lips pressed together. “They wanted me to give in to a demon and become an abomination so they'd have an excuse to kill me,” he said. “And I know what you're thinking, that I'm talking about doing the same thing now, but it's--”

“No, that's not-- Maker's blood, Anders, how could they do that?” Garrett tightened his fingers around Anders's hand.

Anders sighed. “I broke the rules,” he murmured. “So they had to... break me.” He shook his head. “We're not people to the Chantry. We're-- we're problems. Monsters waiting to happen.”

Garrett moved closer. “They can't get to you-- to us-- here. Surana--”

“Is gone,” Anders cut in. “The Templars could ride in right now and drag us all away, and by the time she got back, it'd be too late. She could scream and rage and demand that the queen do something, but we'd all be dead. Or worse.”

Garrett closed his eyes for a moment. “And how is merging with Justice the solution to _any_ of this?” he asked.

“I'd be stronger. More powerful.” Anders flexed his fingers. “I'd have all of his knowledge and experience.”

Those were not the reasons he wanted to hear. Garrett grimaced. “You _know_ what that sounds like--”

“Yeah, I do. Which is why I'm not-- I'm not sure.” Anders sighed. “It's not just some random spirit, though. Justice is a friend. And I want to help him.”

“There has to be some other way.”

“I haven’t found anything better,” he said miserably. “I don’t—I don’t have a lot of time. Justice is rotting away, the Templars are just waiting for an excuse to swoop in and arrest us all… I have to do something.”

“Not this,” Garrett said, taking both of Anders’s hands in his. “There has to be something else we can do.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Anders’s eyes were wide as he searched Garrett’s face. “I mean it. If you’ve got a better way to help Justice, to make the Templars leave us alone…”

Garrett sighed. “I’m working on the Templar thing,” he said. “Me and Surana and Varel, we’ve held them off for this long, we just have to push them back until we can get something that’ll get them to stop.” What that was, he had no idea, but he was entertaining some vague ideas about forgery and blackmail. “And for Justice, I—I don’t know, but letting him live in your head can’t be the only option.”

Anders shrugged and looked away. “None of that is very reassuring, Garrett.”

“Oh, thanks,” Garrett snapped, anger flaring up. “I’m doing my best--”

“I know, I didn’t mean—I know.” Anders looked down at their hands again. “I don’t think you—or, or any of us—can stop them.”

“This thing with Justice isn’t going to stop them either.”

Anders closed his eyes. “It might.” He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes. “Look, can we just—I’m not deciding anything now. Can we just… go to dinner? Leave it alone for now?”

Garrett frowned. “Fine,” he agreed after several long seconds. “But please don’t do anything without talking to me. Please.”

Anders sighed again and pulled his hands away as he slid off the bed. “C’mon,” he said, tilting his head at the door. “My Grey Warden appetite demands food.”

Garrett silently followed him into the hallway, their hands brushing together as they walked. The fact that Anders hadn’t agreed didn’t escape his notice, but he decided to leave it for now. He wasn’t out of time yet.

*

_21 Haring 9:32 Dragon_

Anders regarded the pair of unconscious, twitching, newly minted Wardens lying on the cots and wondered if there was a reason that Joinings always seemed to happen at night. Perhaps it was some sort of ancient Warden tradition. Or maybe Neria just had really unfortunate timing.

He glanced over at her, a slender, hunched figure in Alistair’s shadow. They’d brought the two survivors in a few minutes ago. There had been a third, a mage recruited from the Circle, but he hadn’t survived. Anders hadn't known the man well; there had been a lot of new faces after his release from solitary, and he hadn't bothered to learn most of them.

“I should go see to Ivan,” Neria murmured. “Let the Circle know that he…” She sighed and looked away. Anders frowned, wondering vaguely who she’d have told if he hadn’t survived his Joining. Those bastards back in the tower probably would have thrown a party.

Alistair squeezed her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “There’s no way to know…”

“Of course not,” Neria said. “But he didn’t even want to leave, not really. I dragged him out here and he died.” She shook her head. “Weisshaupt’s orders have been followed. You can send that along when you go back.”

Alistair blinked at her. “Um. Aren’t you coming with me?”

“No. I have too much to do here to go swanning off to the blighted Anderfels—no offense, Anders.”

“None taken,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I understand the place is literally blighted, after all.”

“I can’t just disappear for six months to sit around and be interrogated by the First Warden,” Neria finished. “They want to prove that a Warden can be a competent ruler, then they have to let me rule. If he’s so damned curious about--” she hesitated and glanced at Anders for a split-second, “—everything, then he can come down here and ask me himself.” Anders raised an eyebrow, but kept his questions to himself. For the moment, anyway. 

Alistair sighed. “I’ll be sure to include that in the letter.”

“Good.” She nodded and looked back at the unconscious figures on the cots. “I’ll talk to you both later,” she said, then ducked out of the infirmary.

An awkward silence fell over the room. “So are you actually from the Anderfels?” Alistair finally asked.

“Nope.” Anders turned back towards his workbench, looking for something to occupy his hands. Pounce opened one eye and peered at him blearily for a moment, then went back to sleep. “No desire to visit, either. From all the stories I heard, it’s cold, flat, and everything tastes of despair.”

“Ugh.” Alistair made a face. “Maker, I hope I can talk my way out of that trip.” He rolled his eyes. “The whole point of Anora becoming queen was to keep me _out_ of politics.”

“From what I've seen, the Wardens don't seem to do much else,” Anders said. “Fight a few darkspawn here and there, but mostly it's been whiny nobles and persistent Templars.”

Alistair winced. “They can be difficult at times.”

“Nobles or Templars?”

The other Warden chuckled. “Both, I suppose.” Another silence fell while Alistair stared at the Wardens and Anders unrolled a bandage for the sole purpose of being able to reroll it again when he was done. 

“Did anyone die?” Alistair asked. “In your Joining?”

“One,” Anders said. “Mhari. More evidence of the Maker's rather cruel sense of irony-- she actually wanted to join.” 

“You didn’t?”Alistair asked with a frown.

Anders shrugged, shaking his hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture. “It wasn’t exactly part of the plan, but it was better than the alternative.”

“Ooh, what was the alternative? Sold to Rivaini pirates? Kidnapped by chevaliers? Forced to dance the Remigold by Antivan fishwives?”

Anders blinked and paused for a moment to contemplate the latter option. “Hanged by Templars, actually,” he said.

“Oh.” Alistair frowned. “That’s worse.”

“Might have still been preferable to the dancing thing,” Anders said. 

“That’s true,” Alistair agreed with a wry grin. “I hear Antivan fishwives are very judgmental.”

Anders chuckled and shook his head, idly running his fingers over the unrolled bandage on his workbench. “You used to be a Templar, right?” he asked with a sideways glance.

“No. Well, yes. Sort of?” Alistair scrunched up his nose. “I never took my vows. So… no?”

“But you still learned all the, y'know, smiting and head-kicking and whatnot,” Anders said, gesturing 'smite' with a fist slammed against his palm.

“Well, the first one, yes.” Alistair shrugged. “I never received any formal instruction on kicking, in the head or otherwise.”

“So the guards they assigned to me had special training,” Anders muttered bitterly. “Good to know.”

Alistair sighed. “I didn’t exactly volunteer for the Order,” he said, not quite whining. “I never had any problem with mages. Flames, Neria was one of the first mages I spent any amount of time with, and she’s…” He trailed off with a lovesick sigh and matching smile. “Well, you know her.”

For a moment, Anders considered explaining just how well he knew Neria, but tormenting Alistair seemed sort of like kicking a puppy. And Alistair was the first person he’d met who seemed apologetic about his affiliation with the Templar Order. “Yeah, I do,” he said instead.

Alistair stared intently at the floor for a few moments, then shook his head, as if to clear it. “I ought to go check on her,” he said. “She’s blaming herself for Ivan’s death, I just know it.”

“She’s in charge,” Anders said wryly. “Of course she’s blaming herself.” He gestured at the door. “I’ll send word when they wake up.”

“Thanks.” Alistair flashed a smile at him before disappearing into the hallway. 

Anders looked over at the newest Wardens with a sigh. “Welcome to the club,” he muttered. Hopefully they’d come around soon. He didn’t really want to spend his night watching two people have nightmares. Not when he could be in his bed, or in Garrett’s bed, doing all manner of fun things.

Still, Neria had asked him to stay, so he would. Anders patted Pounce on the head, then picked up the book he’d brought with him. He could always learn a little more about possession while he was waiting.

*

_First Day, 9:33 Dragon_

“You know what? I like our party better,” Garrett declared, stretching luxuriously. “It's quieter. Easier dress code.”

Anders grinned at him from his position on the floor, still sprawled in front of the fireplace, his bare skin golden in the flickering light. “Better view,” he agreed, his gaze wandering openly down Garrett’s chest.

Garrett reached back up onto the couch, fumbling past discarded shirts and trousers, to grab the blanket folded neatly across the back. “I really hope Bethany doesn’t come back anytime soon,” he said as he draped the blanket over his legs. “That’d be awkward.”

Anders hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I… don’t think you need to worry,” he said carefully.

“Yes, I know, she’s probably leaving with Nathaniel,” Garrett said. “I’ve come to terms with it.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He poked Anders in the ribs with his toes and grinned when the other man squeaked. “If he ever hurts her, though…”

“Your vengeance will be terrible and swift?” Anders sat up and leaned against the couch, rearranging the blanket so it covered his legs as well.

“Terrible, yes,” Garrett agreed. “But swift means his suffering would be over quickly.”

“I meant more in speed of delivery, not duration.”

“Ah. Then yes.”

Anders laughed and pressed a kiss to Garrett’s shoulder. Garrett sought Anders’s hand under the blanket and laced their fingers together, willing himself to stop worrying and enjoy this. Ever since he’d found out about Anders’s plans with Justice, he’d felt like time was running out. Like Anders was dying or something, which he wasn’t. He was fine. He was sensible. He wouldn’t go through with it. They’d barely talked about it in the past weeks; every time Garrett had broached the subject, Anders had said he was still researching. The last few times, Anders had gotten snappish and surly, which didn’t exactly instill a lot of confidence.

“I’m thirsty,” Anders announced, breaking into Garrett’s thoughts.

Garrett tilted his head towards the door. “Kitchen’s over there.”

“But I’m warm. And comfortable.” Anders fluttered his eyelashes at Garrett in a silent plea.

“And if I stand up you’ll be less warm and less comfortable.”

“But I’ll also get to ogle you,” Anders pointed out. “Fair trade.”

Garrett shook his head. “Nope. You go.”

“You're mean.”

Garrett raised his eyebrows and rolled his head to the side. “Anders. Need I remind you of all the places that my tongue has been in the past thirty minutes?”

“I might need a refresher,” Anders replied, grinning, and Garrett couldn't help but lean in and kiss him. 

He also couldn't help biting Anders on the nose when they parted. “Go get something to drink,” he said and yanked the blanket away.

Anders pouted and heaved a melodramatic sigh before slowly getting to his feet and strolling towards the kitchen. Garrett was pretty sure the swing in his step was deliberate, but it certainly made for a nice view. Anders disappeared around the corner and started rummaging around; Garrett sighed and leaned his head back against the couch, letting his eyes fall closed. He could go without worrying about... well, everything for a night. So long as he didn't think about Templars or Justice or darkspawn or angry nobles or angrier farmers.

Easier said than done.

“It's snowing!” Anders declared with child-like glee as he sat back down next to Garrett.

Garrett grinned without opening his eyes. “I am not going outside to play in the snow with you, Anders.”

“Well, of course, not _now_ ,” Anders said. He grunted quietly, and Garrett cracked an eye open to see him wrestling with a corkscrew and bottle of wine. “It just started. There's not any on the ground yet.”

Garrett snorted and opened his other eye, then took the bottle away from Anders. “Figures that you'd like snow,” he commented as he deftly uncorked the bottle.

“It's like rain, but fluffy,” Anders said. “And you can make stuff with it.”

“Bethany and I always used to kick Carver's ass in snowball fights,” Garrett said, glancing over at Anders. “Cheated with ice spells. Did you bring glasses?”

“Nope.” Anders plucked the bottle from Garrett's hand and took a swig. “Ooh, I grabbed the good stuff,” he commented as he offered it to Garrett.

Eh, why not, he thought. Garrett took a drink of his own, and they sat in comfortable silence, passing the bottle back and forth. Anders slowly twined himself around Garrett, his leg hooked over Garrett's and their hands linked under the blanket. He tasted like wine when Garrett leaned down to kiss him, and smiled muzzily as Garrett nuzzled at his nose. Garrett smiled back and brushed another kiss to his lips. “I--” Love you, he almost said. 

Oh. Oh, shit.

Garrett caught himself a split second before the words escaped and covered it up with another kiss. Anders hummed happily and took the bottle back while Garrett tried to hide the panic burbling in his chest. All right. So. He was in love with Anders. The thought was terrifying, but not all that surprising. If he were being honest with himself, he'd halfway known it for a while, he just wouldn't admit it. Because it was _terrifying_. To borrow a cliché from Bethany's novels (which he absolutely did not sneak out of her room to read when she was away), he'd never felt like this about someone. Being with Anders felt... felt right. When he pictured the months and years ahead, Anders was always there. Always with him.

And Garrett had a sneaking suspicion that Anders would not take a sudden declaration of love terribly well. Anders still shied away from public displays of affection, holding hands or kisses where anyone else could see. He'd been getting better about it, Garrett thought, but the nervousness was still there. Probably another leftover from the Circle-- Anders had told him, in flippant tones, about sneaking around in supply closets or behind bookshelves to avoid the Templars. It was infuriating, when Garrett really thought about it, that mages weren't even allowed lovers or sex without punishment.

“What're you thinking about?” Anders asked, resting his chin on Garrett's shoulder.

Garrett didn't quite startle. “You,” he replied after a moment, not entirely a lie.

Anders snorted. “You're such a sap sometimes,” he muttered and moved away to take another drink.

Garrett forced out a weak laugh and leaned his head against the couch again. Anders set the nearly empty bottle down and curled up against his side, warm and solid where their bodies touched. Garrett thought about suggesting that they move to the bed, but he didn't want to disturb the comfortable silence. The new year was going to get worse before it got better, between the Templars and Justice and everything else, and he wanted to make this moment last.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

 

_6 Wintersend 9:33 Dragon_

 

_It's dark. Always so dark here, in the caves-- the tower? He's not sure. He just knows it's dark and he has to get away. He has to run._

 

 _He squeezes into a narrow gap in the rock and there's no air, no light, and he's gasping as he presses his hands against the door of his cell. He lost track of time ages ago. The Templars are trying to drive him mad. Trying to make him give in. The demon slides warm, strong arms around his waist, holding him close, rough edges of a beard rasping against his ear. “Let me take you away from here,” the demon—Garrett-- no, the_ demon _murmurs. “We can go, together, before it's too late...”_

 

 _Wrong. The voice is wrong and the arms are wrong and they can't ever get it right and he pushes away, runs down the aisle toward the doors of the Chantry, he has to get away_ now _or else they'll take him back into the dark._

 

“ _No!” Garrett pleads from behind him. “Anders, don't leave me with them, don't leave--”_

 

_He turns but it's too late, the Templar is dropping the brand to the floor and Garrett's eyes are empty, empty and dead, and he screams--_

 

Anders jerked awake, gasping for breath as he blinked into the darkness. It took a few moments for reality to sink in, for his eyes to pick out the shape of the door in the moonlight, for the warmth at his chest and back to translate into Pounce and Garrett, respectively. He swallowed hard and took a few deep breaths. He knew that he could probably fall back asleep soon enough, but whether or not he actually wanted to venture back into the Fade was another matter entirely.

 

With a sigh, Anders eased Garrett's arm off of him and carefully sat up. Garrett mumbled something and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. Half-remembered pieces of the nightmare flickered through Anders's mind, and he reached out to run his hand through Garrett's hair. Garrett sighed, turning into the touch, but his eyes stayed closed.

 

Anders watched him for a few moments, then turned away, slipping a thin tome off the stack of books on his nightstand. He scooted down to the end of the bed and settled in against the wall by the window, knees tucked up against his chest. There was just barely enough moonlight to read by, and Anders all but had to put his nose to the pages to make out the words.

 

Weeks of research had turned up nothing about willing possession by a spirit. Or even if such a thing would be considered possession, really. Anders wasn't quite comfortable with the term. He was beginning to think that if he went through with it, he'd be going in blind. A terrifying prospect, to be sure, but... he shivered, not entirely from the cold. He had to do something, and soon. To protect the people he cared about, to protect himself, to _finally_ stop running and fight for once.

 

He sighed and turned the page. It might be good for him and Justice, in the long run. Justice would get a body and access to Anders's magic; Anders would get Justice's power and knowledge... and maybe someone to defend him in the Fade. Maybe he wouldn't have nights like this anymore, waking up gasping and afraid.

 

“You'll go blind reading like that.” Anders jumped at the sudden sound of Garrett's voice. He looked over as Garrett pushed himself up on one elbow. “At least, that's what my mother always used to tell me.”

 

Anders shrugged. “I didn't want to wake you up,” he said.

 

“Good job,” Garrett said dryly. Anders winced and looked away. “I'm kidding, Anders,” he said, his voice hitching slightly before he said Anders's name. “Come back here, I'm cold. And your cat is on my leg. This cannot stand.”

 

Anders glanced at the book and sighed. It wasn't like he was going to remember any of it come morning, anyway. He set the book on the stack and climbed back under the blankets. Garrett hissed when Anders's foot brushed against his leg. “You're freezing,” he muttered, then moved Pounce out of the way before wrapping his arms around Anders and dragging him against his chest. Anders tried not to cringe at the feeling of Garrett's arm against his scarred back. Another reminder of Templar justice. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Garrett's shoulder.

 

“You all right?” Garrett murmured.

 

Anders shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “Just a bad dream.”

 

Garrett was silent for several long seconds. “Do you wanna talk about it?” he finally asked.

 

“Not much to talk about,” he replied, shifting position slightly. Garrett watched him, eyes shadowed in the dim light. “Templars, darkspawn, darkness-- the usual.” He left out the part about Garrett being made Tranquil. That revealed a bit more about his fears than he was strictly comfortable with.

 

Garrett sighed. His gaze flicked up over Anders's head to the stack of books on the table. “And that made you want to--”

 

“Don't. Please.” He didn't have the energy to fight about it. “Not now.”

 

“Okay.” Garrett managed to keep his mouth shut for almost fifteen seconds-- Anders counted-- before he couldn't hold it in any more. “I just don't want you to do something you'll regret because of a bad dream.”

 

Anders closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Of course Garrett wouldn't get it. He didn't have nightmares, not like that-- he didn't have tainted blood calling to the darkspawn or half a lifetime of abuse at the hands of Templars. “You wouldn't understand,” Anders muttered and rolled over, yanking the blanket up to his shoulders.

 

Garrett huffed in frustration, breath hot against the back of Anders's neck. “So tell me,” he retorted. “I can't understand if you won't _talk_ to me.”

 

Fine. Anders turned onto his back, glaring at the ceiling instead of Garrett. “It's not about 'a bad dream,'” he began, a bitter edge to his voice. “It's what the dreams are about-- getting locked away again, being hunted, having our damn minds burned out at a Templar's say-so.” He glanced at Garrett, whose gaze seemed fixed on Anders's shoulder. “I'm sick of it. I'm sick of being scared all the bloody time. I'm sick of having nightmares about what they did to me. What they might do.”

 

Garrett grimaced and met his eyes. “But this thing with Justice won't--”

 

“Garrett, _please_ , can we not do this now?” Anders cut in. There wasn't anything Garrett could say that he hadn't already thought of himself. They just ended up going in circles. “Please?”

 

“Okay. I'm-- okay.” Garrett shook his head, then held an arm out, inviting. Anders sighed and rolled over to face him; Garrett settled his arm over Anders's waist, well away from the scars, and closed his eyes.

 

Anders kept his eyes open, unwilling to sleep yet, his thoughts a thousand miles away. Well, maybe not a thousand-- more like two hundred and fifty miles to the west and six years in the past, the last place and time he'd let himself get close to someone. Although what he'd had with Karl hadn't been this... this much. He'd known better, they both had. That hadn't made losing him any easier. The thought of losing Garrett to the Templars... Anders sighed quietly. He wouldn't let it happen. Not again.

 

“I can feel you staring at me,” Garrett said, his eyes still shut. “Go to sleep.”

 

Anders snorted and smiled faintly. “If you insist.” He took a deep breath and shut his eyes, hoping for a dreamless sleep.

 

*

 

_12 Wintersend 9:33 Dragon_

 

“Carver, it's your birthday,” Garrett said as he refilled his wine glass. “You don't have to cook.”

 

Carver glanced up from the assortment of vegetables spread across the table. “I'd like a meal that's actually edible,” he replied. “So, yes, yes I do.” He glanced at the doorway behind Garrett, where light and laughter spilled into the room. “And Sigrun wanted to learn about surface cooking, so...”

 

Garrett grinned. “Good luck, little brother,” he said with a wink, then wandered back into the front room. Much as he'd wanted to have a large celebration for the twins' twenty-first birthday-- it was their first at the keep, and the first since Mother died that they hadn't all spent hungry and cold-- they'd both asked for something smaller at home. Just family and close friends, which was why he had a handful of Wardens gathered around his fireplace. Bethany and Nathaniel were cuddled together on the couch, and Surana had claimed the chair that Garrett hadn't bled all over. Rascal seemed to have taken a liking to her and sat by her feet, cheerfully accepting head scratches.

 

Anders was sitting on the floor in front of the fire, his legs stretched out in front of him and Pounce curled up on his lap. “See, you actually _like_ teaching,” Anders said, gesturing at Bethany. “I just got stuck with it because they didn't have any other choice.”

 

“It's true,” Surana put in dryly. “I'm pretty sure he spent more time analyzing his students' love notes than their homework.”

 

Bethany laughed, and Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “Love notes to each other or to you?” he asked.

 

“Oh, to me,” Anders replied flippantly. Garrett smirked and eased himself down to the floor beside Anders. “And before you ask, no, I did not engage in any illicit affairs while I was teaching.”

 

“While you were a student, though...” Surana muttered.

 

Anders grinned. “Well. I am, apparently, irresistible.” Garrett glanced at him and smiled, but didn’t rise to the bait. Anders pouted. “Aren’t I?”

 

“You’re incorrigible, is what you are,” Garrett replied with a smirk as he settled his hand over Anders’s.

 

“Can't argue with that,” Anders agreed. The front door swung open, admitting Sigrun and a swirl of cold air. “Hey, Sigrun, aren’t I irresistible?” Anders called.

 

She shoved the door closed. “Oh, absolutely,” she drawled. “Take me now, you handsome stud.”

 

Anders heaved a melodramatic sigh and started to stand; Garrett grabbed his wrist and yanked him back to the floor. “No.” 'Mine,' was the implication, one of many words he couldn't quite bring himself to say. Not yet.

 

“Sorry, Sigrun,” Anders said, smirking, as she came around the couch.

 

“I’ll get over my disappointment eventually,” she replied with a grin.

 

Carver stepped around the edge of the kitchen door, his arms stiff at his sides and his hands shoved in his pockets. “Hey, Sigrun,” he said with forced nonchalance. Garrett bit the inside of his cheek and fixed his gaze on the pillow under Bethany's arm to keep from laughing. “How was the walk?”

 

“Slippery,” she said, scrunching up her nose. “I'm still not used to all this frozen wet stuff everywhere.”

 

Carver chuckled and rocked forward on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, I, I guess so,” he said. “Um, did you still want to help me with cooking, or did you want to warm up first, or...?”

 

“Oh, I'm sure we'll be warm enough in there,” she said and gestured at the kitchen. “Lead on!”

 

“Right! Right.” He pulled a hand out of his pocket and ushered her into the room. Anders made a strangled sound and pressed his face to Garrett's shoulder to muffle his laughter. Garrett just cleared his throat and put his fist against his mouth for a moment, collecting himself.

 

Bethany scowled at them. “Be nice,” she whispered.

 

“I am!” Garrett whispered back. “I told him 'good luck' earlier and everything!”

 

“He's gonna need it,” Anders muttered, too quiet for anyone else to hear, and Garrett bit his tongue to keep from giggling.

 

Bethany rolled her eyes. “You two are terrible,” she decided and nestled in back against Nathaniel's side. Nathaniel just glanced at them and nodded in silent agreement.

 

“So, Bethany, how are--” Surana began before a knock at the door cut her off.

 

Garrett frowned and glanced at Bethany. “Either of you invite anyone else?” he asked as he got to his feet. She shook her head, looking a bit confused. Garrett sighed and headed for the door.

 

A young, shivering soldier stood outside. “Is the healer here?” he asked.

 

Anders was on his feet before Garrett could say anything. “What's wrong?” Anders asked.

 

“Message for you.” The soldier held out a folded piece of paper, then tucked his arms back in under his cloak.

 

Anders skimmed the note and frowned. Garrett leaned over slightly, trying to read it, but he couldn't make out much of the scrawled handwriting, just a letter here and there. “Thanks,” Anders said, then refolded the note. He looked over at Garrett and sighed. “Sorry--”

 

“Something wrong?”

 

“I, uh, I need to go back to the clinic for a bit,” Anders said, avoiding Garrett's eyes. “I should be back soon. In time for dinner, probably.”

 

“Right.” Garrett watched as Anders pulled on his cloak and arranged the fabric over his feathers. “Is someone hurt?”

 

Anders shrugged. “It's nothing serious,” he replied, which wasn't any kind of answer at all. “I'll be back soon.” He flashed a bright smile at the room, then stepped outside.

 

Garrett shut the door behind him and frowned at the wood. He had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't a patient waiting for Anders in the clinic-- at least, not a live one. No other reason for Anders to be so evasive about it. Maker help him, but he _really_ hated that spirit.

 

“Oh, quit brooding, Garrett,” Bethany said. “He'll be back.”

 

“Of course he will,” Garrett replied, plastering on a smile as he turned back to the room. Anders wasn't going to do anything stupid, not tonight. “He has to come back for his cat.”

 

*

 

_19 Wintersend 9:33 Dragon_

 

It was obvious that whoever came up with the common names of the months lived somewhere in the northern parts of Thedas. Perhaps in Antiva or Tevinter, this time of year was winter's end, but in Amaranthine, it was still bitterly cold, the wind howling around the keep and sneaking in through the cracks around the windows.

 

Anders shivered and rubbed his hands together, breathing on them in an attempt to warm them before going back to measuring out potion ingredients. Some kind of head cold was going around the barracks, and while it was far from fatal, it was generally unpleasant for all involved. Anders knew how to make a potion that would alleviate the worst of the symptoms, but it was tedious to make and had to be taken every six hours, so he'd been brewing all day.

 

The infirmary door banged open, and a pair of guards moved into the room, carrying someone between them. Anders sighed. “I'm working on the next batch, can it--” He turned to look at the latest patient and did a double-take. “Jowan!?”

 

The other mage raised his head, revealing an ugly, scabbed gash on one side of his face, and stared. “Anders?”

 

“What in Andraste's name are you _doing_ here?”

 

Jowan snorted as he half-sat, half-collapsed onto the nearest cot. “I could ask you the same thing.”

 

“ _I'm_ a Grey Warden,” Anders replied. “I'm supposed to be here.” He'd never liked Jowan-- the younger mage was a whining coward whom Neria seemed to like, for some reason. Maybe pity. He'd learned about Jowan's turn to blood magic and subsequent escape only after he was released from solitary. And Maker, that rankled, that _Jowan_ of all people would be the one to successfully escape. Apparently all he had to do was sacrifice his principles and sign his soul over to a demon, and freedom was his for the taking.

 

“You're a Warden?” Jowan asked, looking flabbergasted. He ran a hand through his lank hair and shook his head. “How in flames did you manage that?”

 

Anders ignored Jowan's insultingly shocked response and directed his attention to one of the guards. “Where'd he come from?”

 

“Showed up at the gates,” the woman replied. “Said he was a friend of the arlessa's and needed help. Looked half dead on his feet, so we brought him here. Figured we'd keep an eye on him 'til she came to sort it out.”

 

Anders crouched down in front of Jowan and grabbed the man's wrists, turning his hands palm-side up to check for recent cuts. “What're you doing?” Jowan asked.

 

“Can't be too careful,” Anders replied with a tense, mirthless smile. Jowan scowled. Anders glanced up at the guards. “Did you already send for--”

 

“Jowan?” Neria asked as she stepped into the room, trailed by a rather confused-looking Garrett.

 

“That's what I said.” Anders stood up and nodded at Garrett. “What brings you here?”

 

He shrugged. “We were going over-- things,” he said, glancing at Jowan. “I just followed her.”

 

Jowan sighed, then winced, pressing a hand to his ribs. “Neria, I'm _really_ sorry--”

 

She groaned and covered her face with her hand. “What have you done now?”

 

“Nothing! I swear!”

 

Neria arched an eyebrow behind her hand. “Thank you,” she said to the guards. “You're dismissed.” The two of them exchanged glances, then stepped out into the hall.

 

Garrett hesitated with his hand on the door. “Should I leave, too?”

 

“No, stay,” Anders said before Neria could reply. “The more defenses we have against a blood mage, the better.”

 

Garrett all but slammed the door shut. “Blood mage?”

 

Jowan grimaced. “I'm not a blood mage.”

 

“Really? That's not what I heard in the Circle,” Anders sneered. Even a year later, they'd still been talking about it, hushed whispers when the Templars weren't too close.

 

“Not _anymore_ ,” Jowan amended.

 

Anders rolled his eyes. “It's not exactly the sort of thing you can quit.”

 

“Anders. Stop it.” Neria held up a hand, glaring him into silence, then turned back to Jowan. “What're you doing here?”

 

Jowan shook his head. “Escaping the Templars,” he said. Garrett let out a strangled groan as his forehead thudded against the door. Anders glanced at the windows and swallowed hard, instinctively checking the escape routes. If the Templars were actually that close, he wouldn't be able to escape, but old habits died hard.

 

Neria took a slow, careful breath. “Jowan,” she began, “do they know you're here?”

 

“No.” He sounded confident about that, at least. “I slipped them a few days ago. I've been avoiding them since my escape-- I've gotten good at it.” He didn't look at Anders, but it was clear where the comment was directed. Anders glared at him. “And without a phylactery, I'm much harder to track.”

 

“True enough.” Neria pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why were they hunting you?”

 

“You saw how I was helping refugees during the Blight,” Jowan said. “With the darkspawn gone, they didn't need my help anymore. But there were mages who'd escaped in the fighting... I've been helping them instead.”

 

Neria folded her arms and frowned. “Helping them how?”

 

“Escaping from the Templars. Getting out of Ferelden.” He shrugged helplessly. “I've been trying to make up for my mistakes,” he whined. Anders snorted and rolled his eyes. “I need your help, Neria, just for a little while.”

 

“We don't have any sacrificial victims to spare, sorry,” Anders muttered.

 

Apparently he wasn't as quiet as he'd thought; Neria glared at him and gestured sharply at Jowan. “Why don't you do your job and heal him?”

 

Probably for the best-- a blood mage with open wounds was just asking for trouble. Anders bit his tongue and started casting, watching as the gash on Jowan's cheek slowly closed. “What does helping you involve?” Neria asked. “The number of times I've stuck my neck out for you already...”

 

“I know, Neria, and I'm sorry.” Jowan sighed, absently raising a hand to touch his healed face. “I just need a place to lay low for a while. Just until the Templars fall back.”

 

Garrett cleared his throat. “Not to be rude, but I don't think that adding yet another wanted apostate to our collection here is a good idea,” he said. “Sorry.”

 

“And what makes _him_ better than me?” Jowan asked, gesturing at Anders.

 

“Not a blood mage,” Anders replied dryly. Also, sleeping with the spymaster and close friend of the arlessa. Those certainly didn't hurt his standing any. “Garrett's right, Nery. It's a bad idea. They're breathing down our necks enough as it is--”

 

“He's a friend, Anders,” Neria cut in, and Anders knew they were done for. She'd made her decision. Neria was loyal, even to the people that she really should have cut loose. Anders sighed. From a political standpoint, he probably fell into that category, too. But at least he wasn't a maleficar. “Jowan, if you're well enough to walk, why don't we talk somewhere without an audience?”

 

“That'd be nice,” Jowan agreed, slowly getting to his feet. Anders frowned as the two of them disappeared into the hall.

 

“So!” Garrett clapped his hands together. “He seems like a _great_ guy.”

 

Anders rolled his eyes. “Neria's always had a soft spot for him. No idea why.”

 

“Blackmail?”

 

“Doubtful. He's not that conniving. Or intelligent, really.”

 

Garrett snorted. “You knew him in the Circle?”

 

“Yeah.” Anders sat down on one of the nearby cots and shrugged. “He was Neria's friend, not mine. Never expected him to have the spine to try and escape, much less actually succeed at it.”

 

“And the blood magic?” Garrett asked as he sat down next to Anders, their shoulders and knees bumping together.

 

“That's how he escaped, from what I heard.”

 

“So _that's_ what you've been doing wrong this whole time.”

 

“Apparently.” Anders heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maker, I hope she doesn't let him stay too long.”

 

Garrett frowned. “Yeah,” he said. “It's really not going to help our case with the Templars if they find out he's here.”

 

Anders glanced at him and hesitated for a moment before leaning against Garrett's side, his head on his shoulder. “Have you heard anything on that front lately?”

 

“They're still investigating,” Garrett replied as his hand settled on Anders's knee. “Rumor has it that the Revered Mother might request outside help to clean up the whole mess, but it's just a rumor. With luck, it'll stay that way.”

 

“I hope so.” Anders let his eyes close for a moment. This was nice, just sitting together, Garrett warm against his side. It felt normal and right and good, yet he couldn't shake the nagging fear that it was going to end. That the Templars would come and tear them apart. He'd lived through that once; he had to do _something_ to make sure it didn't happen again.

 

Garrett pressed a kiss to his hair and pulled away slightly. “I should let you get back to work,” he said as he got to his feet. “Want to come by for dinner tonight? Carver's cooking.”

 

Anders smirked. “I'd prefer not to be poisoned, actually.”

 

“He managed to restrain himself last time,” Garrett said. “What d'you say?”

 

“Oh, all right. I'll be there.”

 

Garrett smiled. “Good.” He leaned down and gave Anders a light kiss, then headed to the door. “See you tonight.” His voice caught after the last word, like he was going to say something else but stopped himself.

 

“See you.” Anders watched him go and scrubbed a hand over his face. He still couldn't believe _Jowan_ of all people had showed up. At this rate, they were going to end up with their own miniature Circle. Complete with looming Templars, from the looks of things. He scowled and pushed himself off the cot. There were potions to make and books to re-read before he ventured out into the cold for dinner. At least it was something to look forward to at the end of the day.

 

*

 

_21 Wintersend 9:33 Dragon_

 

It took Garrett entirely too long to track down the Keep's latest guest. Letting a blood mage have free run of the fortress seemed like a horrible idea, to put it bluntly. But Surana trusted Jowan, for reasons beyond Garrett's understanding. Oghren had told him second-hand stories about the last time Surana had run into Jowan-- in Redcliffe's dungeons and accused of poisoning Arl Eamon, of summoning demons to torment the town. Garrett wasn't sure how much of it was true. None of it made him any happier about the situation.

 

He finally found Jowan in the library, sitting in the window seat that he'd come to think of as Anders's. Garrett silently hoped that Anders didn't catch himthere.

 

Jowan looked considerably better than he had when Garrett first saw him in the infirmary. Clean hair and clean robes really did wonders for a person. They couldn't hide the sunken cheeks or bruised eyes that spoke of time spent on the run, though. Jowan glanced up from the window as Garrett approached. “Hawke, right?” Jowan asked. “Did you need something?”

 

Garrett leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “I need to know about the Templars who're searching for you,” he said flatly.

 

The other mage frowned. “I already told Neria--”

 

“And now you’re gonna tell me.” Garrett shrugged. “Part of my job is making sure the Chantry leaves us alone. Harboring a blood mage isn’t going to help matters much. I need to know what’s coming.”

 

Jowan sighed. “I’m not a—oh, forget it. It’s not like you’ll believe me, anyhow.”

 

Well, at least that had been cleared up. “How did the Templars find you?”

 

“Somebody sold me out,” Jowan said, a note of anger entering his voice. “I’d brought two free mages to Denerim and gotten them to their ship to Rivain. I was leaving the docks when the Templars showed up. Raided the ship and came after me.”

 

Garrett waved a hand in the air. “Go on.”

 

Jowan looked back at the window. “I made it outside the city before they caught up with me. They… aren’t a problem anymore.”

 

More dead Templars. Perfect. That was just what he needed. Garrett pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “How many?”

 

“Four.”

 

Bringing the count up to seven. Or thirteen, depending on who was counting. And Maker only knew how many other Templars Jowan had killed. “How long ago was this?”

 

“Ah…” Jowan paused, brow creasing. “Today’s the twenty-first?” At Garrett’s nod, he shrugged and shook his head slightly. “A week. I’d heard that Neria was the arlessa here, and when everything fell apart in Denerim I just… I needed help. So I ran straight here.”

 

“And you’re sure you weren’t followed?” Garrett asked. Templars weren’t known for their patience, and if any had followed Jowan, they’d almost certainly have charged in and dragged everyone away by now… but he had to be sure.

 

Jowan huffed out an annoyed breath. “Yes. I wouldn’t have led them here. I know how to avoid them.”

 

“Well.” Garrett pushed off the wall and narrowed his eyes at Jowan. “See to it that you keep up the good work. Because if they show up looking for you, you’re going to have to run. Handing you over isn’t going to save any of us.” He paused, looking the other mage over. “I don’t know if you’re malicious or just stupid, but you’ve managed to put everyone here in danger. If we hand you over to the Templars, we admit to harboring a blood mage. If you run and they catch you, they’ll figure out we sheltered you eventually.” He took a step forward; Jowan blinked at him and swallowed hard. “So don’t get caught.”

 

“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Jowan’s wide eyes and unsteady voice weren’t exactly reassuring.

 

“I’m sure you don’t.” Garrett spun on his heel and stalked off through the shelves. The sooner Jowan was gone, the better. Surana had ignored everyone’s protests about letting him stay, and Garrett doubted she’d force him to leave on her own.

 

He sighed and rounded a corner, mentally composing a list of what he needed to get done today. The normal batch of notes and bribes to his contacts across the arling—it had been so much _easier_ when he could actually leave the Keep. He had a few contacts in Denerim, though he hadn’t heard from them in months. Trying to get information on Jowan’s dead Templars might not be a bad idea. Having some idea of what was coming would—

 

The stench hit him suddenly, an almost physical wall of rot and decay. Garrett fell back a step, coughing and trying not to gag. Justice frowned and stopped in his tracks. He waited to speak until Garrett had finished choking-- though Garrett wasn't sure if the spirit was being polite or just socially awkward. “I repulse you,” Justice stated. That settled that, then. Definitely just awkward.

 

Garrett inched backwards as subtly as possible. “Well, you are a rotting corpse.”

 

“I am a spirit,” Justice said, a thread of annoyance in his voice. “This body is not me. It is where I reside.”

 

For now, a voice in Garrett’s head supplied. “Yeah. And I bet you'd much prefer a nice, handsome, living body, wouldn't you.”

 

Justice narrowed his eyes. “You speak of Anders,” he said. “I did not know that he had told you of our... discussions.”

 

“Your discussions about you taking over his body? Yeah, he did.”

 

“I would not be--”

 

“You don’t know _what_ you’d be doing,” Garrett hissed. A dull, pounding headache was building behind his eyes. “Neither of you do. It’s idiotic and dangerous and I will _not_ let you take him from me.” He bit his tongue and winced. That last part had just sort of… slipped out.

 

Justice straightened up, his opaque eyes widening in anger. “Anders belongs to no one,” he said. “And jealousy is the domain of demons, mage.”

 

Garrett’s jaw twitched. “So’s possessing a mortal, _spirit_.”

 

“Anders is free to make his own decisions,” Justice snapped. “He made a selfless offer to help free mages from their oppression. Your selfish greed would hold him back.”

 

Garrett gritted his teeth. That was the problem, really—much as he wanted to hold Justice responsible for all this, it had been Anders’s idea. But Maker help him, he couldn't stand the thought of losing Anders. Not to the Templars and not to—to some self-righteous spirit that wanted to shack up in his head. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, nothing beyond ‘please don’t take him from me.’ So instead Garrett just shook his head and stormed past Justice, slamming the library door behind him with a resounding crack.

 

His head was throbbing, pain stabbing into the back of his eyes, and Garrett paused in the hall to massage his temples. None of that had gone well. At least Justice hadn’t followed him out to continue lecturing.

  
Garrett heaved a sigh and headed toward the stairs. The work in his office could wait for a few minutes. He needed to see Anders, and for far more reasons than just the headache.

 

*

 

_29 Wintersend 9:33 Dragon_

 

Anders pressed a fist to his mouth and choked back a cough. Dammit. He could not be getting sick. The cold from two weeks ago had morphed into some kind of lung infection, and it had spread from the barracks to the servants’ quarters. And everyone expected the resident healer to be able to wave his hands and fix it.

 

That was the problem with being a healer, Anders thought as he braced his palms against his desk and closed his eyes. Everyone thought he was a miracle-worker. All he could do with something like this was bolster a person’s natural resistances, give them an edge in fighting off infection. Not so different from what he did for his allies in combat. The risk of harm was about the same, except he was facing down exhaustion and a fever instead of a sword in the gut.

 

He cleared his throat again and sighed. The other problem with being a healer was that he wasn’t supposed to get sick. People just assumed that with all that healing energy coming out of him, he was impervious to disease. Unfortunately, if he spent enough time around people who were hacking their lungs out, he’d get sick, just like anyone else.

 

Anders knew he was well on his way to illness himself, going by the cough he’d been fighting for most of the day. But this wasn’t the Circle, where he could tag in one of the other healers when he started flagging. There was just him. Bethany and a few of the soldiers with basic field-medicine training had been helping as much as they could, but it wasn’t enough.

 

Though if he collapsed from exhaustion, they'd have no choice but to manage things on their own.

 

With a sigh, Anders looked around the infirmary. Nearly every cot was occupied, but no one seemed to be on death's door at the moment. “Lewis,” he called, pushing off from the desk. The older man looked up from arranging a cool cloth on a patient's forehead. “I'm stepping out for a couple minutes. Keep an eye on things here?”

 

Lewis nodded. “Of course, ser.”

 

Months out of the tower and it still felt weird, having people address him like that. _Ser_ was a title reserved for Templars. Anders shook his head and pushed the door open, stepping out into the blessedly empty hallway. He waited until the door had clicked shut behind him before leaning his head against the wall and giving into the bout of coughing he'd been holding back. It left him winded, his chest aching; he squeezed his eyes shut and allowed himself a few moments of self-pity. And then a few more after that, because Maker's arse, he felt _awful_. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed, hug his cat, and get tea and backrubs from Garrett.

 

“Anders.”

 

He did _not_ want to have a conversation with Justice right now. Anders glanced to the side and sighed. “What is it?”

 

“I found a tome that contains information about spirits,” Justice said. “Large sections are in the Imperial tongue, however. I cannot read it.”

 

Anders groaned and closed his eyes again. “Can it wait?” he asked plaintively.

 

“How long are the oppressed mages of Thedas supposed to wait?”

 

He knew spirits didn't have much of a conception of time, but Maker's blood, Justice had been in the mortal realm for half a year. Surely he'd have gotten a handle on the idea by now. “I've got twenty sick people in there who need me right now,” Anders said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “A few hours isn't going to make a difference in the grand scheme of things.”

 

Justice huffed in annoyance. “Very well,” he said. “I will continue my research.”

 

Anders listened to the spirit stomp self-righteously away, then heaved a sigh. The deep breath brought on another round of coughing. He whimpered a bit when it was over and ran his hands through his hair. He'd have to see if Bethany could manage things tomorrow. And possibly the day after. Anders knew his limits, and they were fast approaching. With a sigh, he shoved away from the wall and walked back into the infirmary.

 

An hour after sunset found Anders sitting at his desk, staring at the faintly glowing blue bottle in front of him. He'd gotten to the point where he couldn't even cast a weak ice spell to ease his own fever; the attempt just sent a wave of prickling down his arms. The lyrium potion would get him through another few hours... but it probably wasn't a good idea to force himself to keep casting.

 

“Hey, Anders.” Bethany stepped into his line of sight. “You all right?”

 

He blinked up at her, then slowly shook his head. “Nope.”

 

She smiled sympathetically and placed a hand on his forehead. “Oh, Anders,” she murmured. “Go to bed. You're burning up. Lewis and I can cover things for tonight.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Absolutely. Go find my brother and make him take care of you. He's got excellent bedside manner.” Bethany came around the desk and tugged at his elbow, pulling him out of the chair and guiding him to the door. “Maker's breath, Anders, how are you still standing?”

 

“Magic.” He grinned muzzily at her. “And stubbornness.”

 

Bethany snorted and pulled the door open. “No kidding. Garrett's probably in his office. Go flop dramatically over his desk, he'll do the rest.” Anders blinked at her and arched an eyebrow; Bethany turned bright red. “Oh, stop it, you know what I mean. Go away.” She pushed him into the hallway, then shut the door behind him with a definitive click.

 

Anders sighed. “She's like a miniature Wynne,” he muttered. He was halfway down the hall when he remembered his earlier conversation with Justice. Anders grimaced and made for the stairs. If nothing else, working on translations would give him something to do when he was inevitably stuck in bed tomorrow.

 

The door to the library was cracked open, and flickering candlelight dimly lit the room. Anders followed it, moving slowly, one hand trailing along the wall. He slowed and came to a stop as voices reached him. “...bit rusty, but I think this part means 'the unbroken vessel,'” Jowan said, voice low.

 

“Unbroken vessel?” Justice repeated. Anders grimaced. What in flames was Justice doing talking to _Jowan_? Justice had to know the man was a blood mage, and the spirit had made his feelings on maleficar very clear. Consorting with demons was not to be tolerated. So why were they camped out in the library together?

 

Anders's chest tightened, and he pressed a hand to his mouth to muffle a cough. To the Void with it. He didn't have to bother with translating likely useless texts now, which meant he could just rest and do a whole lot of nothing for the next day or so. Probably for the best. He turned and crept out of the library. Find Garrett, win Garrett's pity, collapse into bed and let someone else do the caretaking for a while. “Good plan,” he muttered to himself and slowly began to descend the stairs.

 

*

 

_5 Guardian 9:33 Dragon_

 

“Don't you have an office?”

 

Garrett glanced up from his position cross-legged on the floor and met Varel's bemused gaze. “It's freezing in there,” he replied.

 

“And so you moved into the throne room.”

 

He shrugged and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the roaring fire in the middle of the room. “Much warmer.”

 

Varel snorted. “There have to be warmer places that invite less interruption.”

 

“They're farther away. This was the first fireplace I ran into.” Garrett grinned. “It's too cold to walk any more than absolutely necessary.”

 

“Fair enough,” Varel replied. He nodded at the half-circle of papers surrounding Garrett. “Anything pressing I should know about?”

 

Garrett glanced around before replying. “The sooner we get rid of Neria's special guest, the better,” he murmured. “Our dear friend Julienne managed to uncover an actual lyrium smuggling operation in the Templars, as opposed to the one that I invented,” Varel smirked and shook his head at that, “which has the local Chantry in a bit of an uproar. According to my sources, anyway.” Garrett sighed. Not being able to go out in the field and investigate things himself was maddening.

 

“That's good, isn't it?” Varel asked, folding his arms.

 

“For now, yes,” Garrett agreed. “But eventually someone's going to work out that Rylock wasn't involved in this group of smugglers. And then they'll either assume that there were two operations, or, more likely, they'll have their suspicion that I made the whole thing up confirmed.” He picked up a thick sheet of parchment and held it out to the seneschal. “Either way, they'll come back to investigating us, and it's not gonna be pleasant when they do.”

 

Varel skimmed the page, his brow furrowing as he read. “An outside investigator?”

 

“Just rumors, for now, but it's a rumor I've been hearing for a while,” Garrett said. “If the local Chantry can't wrap this up on their own and soon, someone higher up the chain is going to be sent in.”

 

“From the Grand Cleric?”

 

“Probably.”

 

Varel sighed and passed the report back. “The arlessa's position is secure, thanks to Anora's decree--”

 

“Only as long as the Chantry respects that decree,” Garrett cut in. “And it leaves the rest of us mages out in the cold.” It wasn't quite to the point where he was getting ready to run. Not yet. Still, they'd gotten too comfortable here. It had been so long since they'd had to run to escape the Templars; Father had chosen Lothering well. Or maybe he'd just been better at keeping a low profile.

 

“We're together in this,” Varel said. “No one's getting thrown to the wolves.” He leaned down to pat Garrett's shoulder companionably. “Let me know if the situation changes.”

 

“Right.” Garrett watched Varel stride off, then blew out a breath and looked back at his reports. He hadn't heard anything from his contacts in Denerim; not surprising, all things considered, given how tenuous the connections had been in the first place. But it meant he had no information about the Templars Jowan had killed, or if the Chantry in Denerim was preparing to send anyone out to the arling. Being blind-sided by a Templar investigation would be a disaster, but he had no way of filling that gap. Not without taking a long trip to the capitol, and Garrett didn't want to leave the keep for that long.

 

Still, there was nothing he could do about the situation right now. He turned to the other side of his half-circle, where he'd organized all the reports that weren't about the looming threat of the Chantry. Just the looming threats of everything else: angry nobles and bitter peasants and opportunistic raiders. Garrett picked up a short report—letter, really—written in a familiar, precise hand. Aveline was well aware that his friendly, ‘just-checking-in’ letters were a plea for information, and she passed along what she could.

 

The news wasn’t exactly good. Surana had managed to keep the arling from starving by importing food from the Free Marches, but to do so, she’d had to increase taxes on the nobles. The nobles were none too pleased; those who’d already opposed Surana were becoming more outspoken against her, and even some of her supporters were falling away. Garrett sighed. Fortunately, none of his sources gave him reason to think that they were going to be facing down another assassination attempt—at least not any time soon. Zevran had done his job well, it seemed.

 

Heavy footfalls warned him of a new visitor's approach. There was something to be said for working in the throne room-- very difficult for anyone to sneak up on him. Nathaniel probably could, were he so inclined, but otherwise Garrett could hear company coming halfway across the room. “What are you doing out here?” Carver asked, stepping into view and frowning down at his brother.

 

Garrett shrugged. “Writing a novel, obviously,” he said with a sweeping gesture at the papers. “It’s about a dashing spy and his adventures. I based the pack mule off you.”

 

Carver glared at him. “And here I was going to give you the reports from the scouts,” he said. “But since you _clearly_ have better things to do--”

 

Garrett made a grabbing motion in the air; Carver smirked and shook his head. “C’mon, Carver,” he whined. “Have pity on your poor, trapped brother who can’t even leave the keep without getting turned into a pincushion.”

 

“Maybe you should learn to dodge.”

 

“Maybe you should give me the reports before I report you to Garavel for insubordination.”

 

Carver snorted and handed over the sheaf of papers. “Just so you know,” he said, “I won that round.”

 

Garrett smirked. “Won what, dear brother?” he asked, skimming the top page. “We were just having a conversation.”

 

“You’re impossible,” Carver muttered. “Did you and Bethany have plans for dinner tonight? I thought I might drop by.”

 

Garrett lowered the papers. “That’s the third time this week,” he said. “It’s like you _miss_ us or something.”

 

“I’m just worried that Beth will starve to death on your cooking.”

 

He chuckled and shook his head. “We’ll both be home,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

 

“Have fun reading about pirates.”

 

Garrett sighed and looked back at the report. Pirates. Of course. That was just what they needed.

 

*

 

_9 Guardian 9:33 Dragon_

 

“Anders.”

 

Anders glanced up from the mess of his workbench—he’d started sorting through his remaining supplies to see if he had enough to get the keep through the rest of winter—and nodded at Justice. “Need something stitched up?” he asked.

 

Justice shut the infirmary door behind him. “I must speak with you.”

 

That sounded ominous. Anders set down his quill and turned to face the spirit. “Okay.”

 

“You knew Jowan in the Circle, correct?” Justice asked. Anders grimaced and nodded. “As did the Commander. I have spoken to her about him, but I wished to know your opinion of him also.”

 

Anders snorted. “He was a whiny, spineless coward who only managed to escape because he turned to blood magic. The sooner Neria cuts him loose, the better.”

 

“I have spoken with him often,” Justice said, frowning. “He is not a coward. He has made many mistakes, but now risks his life and his freedom in order to atone.”

 

“What, are you two buddies now?” Anders asked incredulously. “Justice, he’s a blood mage! He made a deal with a demon! How are you okay with that?”

 

Justice folded his arms. “As I said. He has made many mistakes. But I find his actions towards atonement admirable.”

 

Anders rolled his eyes and looked away. “Well, don't go developing too much of a crush there,” he said. “He'll be leaving soon enough.”

 

“Yes, he will.” Justice nodded, his gaze drifting to the windows of the clinic. “Have you come to a decision about your offer? To take me in to your body?”

 

He really wished Justice wouldn't put it like that. Anders _knew_ that Justice was a spirit who happened to be temporarily inhabiting a disgusting, rotting corpse, but... yech. “I... no, not yet,” Anders said. “I'm still researching.”

 

“You are stalling.” Justice turned to face him fully, eyes narrowed. “We have both been researching for nearly two months.”

 

Anders straightened up, his shoulders tense. “This isn't exactly a small thing we're talking about here, Justice,” he said. “We don't know if there'd be a way to undo this. I might have you in my head for the rest of my life. Which is, you know, likely to be somewhat shorter than most, but still. It's a pretty serious commitment.”

 

“One which you proposed and have had ample time to consider,” Justice said, voice rising with righteousness-- or anger. Anders wasn't entirely sure which. “How long will you ask your fellow mages to wait? How long will you ask _me_ to wait?”

 

“I don't know!” Anders instinctively leaned away from Justice, cringing a bit. “I don't know what this-- this merger would do to me. Or to you. I don't know what we'd be.”

 

“You wish to free yourself and your fellow mages from oppression, do you not?”

 

“Yes! I just--” Anders exhaled sharply. “I'm not ready to decide yet. Not tonight. Okay? Just... I need to think about this.”

 

Justice stared at him. “Very well,” he said, jaw clenched. “Do as you will.” He spun on his heel and marched out, all but slamming the door behind him.

 

Anders blew out a slow breath and sank into his chair. Justice had a point-- he'd spent two months thinking and researching and, yes, all right, stalling. But it wasn't like this was just deciding to eat an extra slice of pie at dinner or something. This would change his life, even moreso than joining the Wardens had. It could very well kill him.

 

If he was being honest with himself, he knew he didn't want to do it.

 

But that didn't mean he shouldn't. There were plenty of things he didn't want to do that he did anyway. Fight darkspawn. Clean bloodstains off the cots. Let Garrett's dog share the bed. And this thing with Justice, what it would mean, what it would let him do-- that was all so much more important.

 

But Maker help him, it was terrifying.

 

Anders groaned, covering his face with his hands. When he thought about going through with it-- walking up to Justice and saying yes, all right, come on in-- it sent his stomach up into his throat. It was almost like vertigo, like he was looking off the edge of a cliff and trying to convince himself to jump.

 

“Right.” Anders took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then dropped his hands. “Not deciding anything tonight.” Justice wouldn't expect an answer one way or another for a few days, at least. He pushed himself to his feet and went back to his workbench. He could get this mess cleaned up, if nothing else.

 

*

 

_11 Guardian 9:33 Dragon_

 

Garrett groaned and grabbed Anders's shoulder, pulling the other man down for a hard, biting kiss. Anders shifted his weight, the rhythm of his strokes around both their cocks faltering for a moment.

 

“Oh, Maker, Anders, don't fucking _stop_ \--” Garrett ground out, arching up against him.

 

Anders let out a breathy laugh. “Wouldn't, uhn, wouldn't dream of it.” His fingers tightened around them, and Garrett practically whimpered. He dragged Anders down against him and hooked one leg around Anders's waist, grinding their hips together. Anders swore, his voice muffled in Garrett's skin, then groaned and bit down on Garrett's collarbone as he came.

 

Garrett growled in frustration as Anders's fingers relaxed around him. “Fucking Void, Anders--”

 

“Shut up,” Anders muttered, then raised his head enough to capture Garrett's mouth in a kiss. Garrett moaned, hands scrabbling against the mattress, as tiny electric sparks danced across his skin. He could feel Anders smirking against his lips.

 

“Smug-- oh, fuck, you smug _bastard_ ,” Garrett muttered.

 

“Ought to be nicer to the man getting you off,” Anders replied and nipped at Garrett's lower lip. Garrett's reply vanished into a choked gasp as he came, shuddering and panting for breath. Anders gave him a crooked smile, then dropped his head to Garrett’s shoulder. They laid there for a few minutes, out of breath and tangled together; eventually, Anders grunted and started to sit up.

 

 

Garrett looped an arm around his waist and pulled him back. “No.”

 

Anders heaved a melodramatic sigh. “Garrett, we're going to end up glued together.”

 

“Not right away.”

 

“C'mon, let go, we're all sticky and gross.”

 

“That's your fault,” Garrett muttered.

 

Anders made a face. “I didn't exactly hear you complaining,” he commented and pushed at Garrett's chest.

 

Garrett leaned up and kissed him, a bit more sloppily than intended. “Okay,” he said, releasing Anders and thumping back against the pillow. “Now you can go... wherever you were going.”

 

Anders rolled his eyes and reached off the edge of the bed for a towel. “You're ridiculous.”

 

“If by 'ridiculous' you mean 'charming and sexy,' then yes, I agree.”

 

Anders didn’t respond to that beyond an amused snort and a shake of his head. He finished cleaning them off and tossed the towel to the floor, then flopped back down on top of Garrett. Garrett let out a muffled yelp as Anders’s elbow collided with his ribs. “Sorry,” Anders muttered, sounding not very contrite at all, and twined himself around Garrett.

 

Garrett chuckled and turned his head, brushing a kiss to Anders’s temple. He took half a breath, preparing to speak, then caught himself and stopped. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, to tell Anders he loved him, but…

 

“What?” Anders asked with a slight frown.

 

“Mm?”

 

“You looked like you were gonna say something.” Anders ran his fingers up and down Garrett’s ribs.

 

Garrett shrugged. “Just thinking about how lucky I am,” he replied with a grin.

 

Anders’s eyes widened slightly, and for a split-second he looked terrified before he grinned back. “Damn right you are,” he said. “There’re people who’d kill—well, maybe not kill, probably just severely maim—to have me in their bed.”

 

And there was the problem. Whenever Garrett brought up how he felt about Anders, no matter how indirectly, Anders seemed to panic. Not exactly strong encouragement for a sudden declaration of love. “I’m in _your_ bed, though,” he said instead.

 

“Semantics,” Anders replied, tugging the blankets up over them.

 

Garrett smirked and shook his head, his gaze drifting around the dark room. Something about the nightstand caught his attention, and it took a few moments of confused blinking before he worked out what it was. “Your books are gone.”

 

Anders tensed. “Yeah,” he said, his voice carefully even. “I don’t need them anymore.”

 

Garrett’s breath caught in his chest. “Anders…”

 

“It’s not—I haven’t made up my mind,” Anders said wearily. “But there’s nothing left to research.”

 

Garrett swallowed hard. Please don’t, he thought, tightening his arms around Anders. I love you, please don’t do it. But the words wouldn’t come. If he told him now, it would seem like blackmail. But if he didn’t tell him soon, he might never get the chance. Damn it all. Garrett sighed and stared up at the ceiling, listening as Anders’s breathing evened out, and hoped he wasn’t about to lose him again.

 

*

 

_12 Guardian 9:33 Dragon_

 

“Zevran's coming back?” Anders repeated and grinned down the table at Neria. “Guess I better start making rejuvenation potions...”

 

Across from him, Garrett snickered into his glass. Neria just smiled smugly and shrugged. “Oh, you've got time to stock up,” she drawled. “He won't be back for at least a month. He still has some business to wrap up in Antiva, and he said that he refuses to return to Ferelden while it's still frozen.”

 

“Smart man,” Nathaniel muttered as he leaned over to grab another slice of bread.

 

Garrett shook his head. “Have you no patriotism, ser?”

 

“I spent eight years in the Free Marches and learned what reasonable weather feels like. So no.”

 

Garrett heaved a dramatic sigh and turned to his sister. “Bethany, I'm sorry, but I cannot allow you to be in a relationship with someone who has such little pride in his homeland.”

 

“Nathaniel's got a point,” Anders said, deliberately maintaining an expression of mild sincerity. Garrett was such an easy mark sometimes. “It is ridiculously cold here. And muddy. And this obsession with dogs...”

 

Garrett just blinked at him. “It's like I don't even know you.”

 

Anders grinned and ran his foot up the side of Garrett's calf. “So, Nathaniel,” he purred, turning to look at the archer, “since the Hawkes have abandoned us for our lack of patriotism, shall we--”

 

“No.”

 

“ _I_ haven't abandoned anyone,” Bethany pointed out. “Garrett's the one choosing queen and country over you, Anders. Sorry.”

 

Anders sighed and leaned his chin on his hand. “Maybe I'll just try for the other Hawke brother, then.”

 

Garrett choked on his ale and shook his head, coughing into his fist. “Andraste's tears, Anders, don't say things like that,” he sputtered. “I feel like I need to scrub out my mind...”

 

“Oh, I'm sure you'll find something to distract you,” Anders replied blandly as he slid his foot up to the vicinity of Garrett's thigh. Garrett cleared his throat and arched an eyebrow at him; Anders just blinked with false innocence. “Bethany, could you pass the potatoes?” he asked.

 

She shook her head at him, as though she could sense he was up to no good, but passed the food over anyway. The door to the dining hall swung open, and Anders grimaced when Jowan wandered in. And dinner had been going so well, too. Jowan walked straight over to Neria, staggering a bit, almost as if he was dizzy. Anders frowned, his gaze dropping to the other mage's forearms. He couldn't tell if there were any recent cuts, not from this distance.

 

“Neria.” Jowan's voice sounded strange, almost like it was echoing. Anders leaned forward, peering past Nathaniel to where Neria was sitting. “I wanted to tell you. I'm leaving now.”

 

Neria blinked up at him. “Now-now? It's well after sunset. You can wait until morning, can't you?”

 

Jowan shook his head. “No, I... I cannot stay. I'm sorry. I—I wanted to thank you. For everything you've done. You helped me when I--” He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes, then shook his head slightly. “It meant so much, to have your support and guidance.”

 

“Jowan, what's going on?” Neria asked. Anders was vaguely aware the rest of the table had gone quiet.

 

“I'm leaving,” Jowan said again, his voice stronger. “And Justice is coming with me.”

 

There was a loud clatter as Anders's fork slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers and hit his plate. No. He couldn't mean... they couldn't have... Jowan was a _blood mage_ , Justice would never have agreed... Anders could feel Garrett staring at him, but he couldn't look away from Jowan.

 

“What are you talking about?” Neria asked.

 

Jowan raised a hand to his forehead. “Justice... needed a new host. He needed someone who was willing to help him. To make the necessary commitments and sacrifices so that one day, all mages would be free.” His gaze flickered to Anders. “He couldn't wait any longer.”

 

Anders looked away, staring blindly at the table. His stomach felt like it had dropped to the vicinity of his boots, and he had to almost force himself to take each new breath. How could Justice have done this? How could he have chosen Jowan over him? What had happened to him-- was he still in Jowan, or was he just... gone?

 

The worst part, though, was that somewhere behind the shock and the anger, he was relieved. The decision had been made, taken out of his hands, and he didn't have to make the risk. He was _relieved_ , and it sickened him.

 

“Jowan.” Neria shifted into her Commander voice. “What did you do?”

 

“Justice and I are one,” Jowan said. “Our goals are aligned. We-- I-- must help the mages of Thedas free themselves from oppression.” He smiled faintly. “Thank you, Neria. If you had not aided us both, this would not have been possible. We owe this to you.” Jowan bowed his head towards her, then turned on his heel and headed for the door.

 

“Jowan-- Jowan, wait!” Neria scrambled out of her chair and ran after him. The door slammed shut behind her, leaving the silent table behind.

 

Anders could feel the others staring at him. He knew what was coming, the questions and demands for some kind of explanation and he could not handle that, not now. “I have to go,” he muttered and pushed away from the table.

 

“Anders,” Garrett started, but he ignored him. Anders hurried to the side door and shoved it open, brushing past a pair of gossiping servants in the hall before he broke into a run. He had to get away.

 

*

 

Garrett was on his feet before the door shut behind Anders. “Garrett, what's going on?” Bethany asked, grabbing at his wrist.

 

“It's-- I-- later,” he said and pulled his arm free. “I'll explain later.”

 

He heard Bethany sigh, either in concern or frustration, as he ran across the room to the door Anders had disappeared through. Two elven servants stood to one side, both looking a bit startled. “Did you see--” he started.

 

They both pointed down the hall. “That way,” the darker-haired woman said. “Running like a demon was after him. Everything all right in there?”

 

“Yeah, it's fine,” Garrett said. “Thanks.” He followed the hallway until it split. One branch led back towards the front of the keep, while the other led to a flight of stairs. There was no sign of Anders.

 

Garrett shook his head. Anders had probably gone back to his room; it tended to be his preferred refuge. He took the stairs two at a time and hurried through the winding halls to Anders's room. The door was closed; he knocked, head cocked to the side. No sound, but that didn't mean Anders wasn't in there. He knocked again. “Anders?” Still nothing. Garrett tried the handle; it turned under his hand, and he pushed the door open.

 

The room was empty, save for a rather disturbed-looking Pounce. “Sorry,” Garrett muttered. He leaned against the doorframe and sighed. “Where would he have gone?” The infirmary, maybe, or perhaps the library... but if he wasn't there, then Garrett had a lengthy search ahead of him. The keep was immense; they only used about half of the rooms, and there were entire floors left empty. If Anders really wanted to hide, there were plenty of places for him to go.

 

Pounce stood up and stretched, then jumped to the floor and trotted out to the hallway. Garrett raised an eyebrow. “Don't tell me _you_ know where he is,” he said.

 

The cat just walked off down the hall, heading for the stairs. Garrett sighed and shut the door, then followed. It wasn't like he had any better ideas.

 

Pounce led him up to the fourth floor, pausing occasionally to sniff at the stones before continuing on. This floor was one of the abandoned ones, and Garrett could see where the dust on the floors had been disturbed. The tracks disappeared through a heavy wooden door; Pounce stopped in front of it and sat down, staring at the handle with enormous eyes. “I can take a hint,” Garrett muttered. “Y'know, my dog can work these on his own.”

 

He opened the door, revealing another set of stairs twisting up into the darkness. “Great. He would decide to run up six flights of stairs, wouldn't he.” Garrett glanced at Pounce. “You coming?”

 

Pounce just blinked at him, tail swishing in the dust, but otherwise didn't move. “Right. You can just... wait here, then.” Another slow blink. Garrett frowned. He was used to this level of intelligence from Rascal, but in a cat, it was oddly disturbing.

 

With a sigh, Garrett started to climb the stairs, trailing a hand along the wall, his breath misting in front of him. The stairs led to another door, though this one stood ajar, with flickering light spilling out through the crack.

 

Anders was at the lone window in the empty tower room, his back to the door. Two of the torches were lit, the flames dancing and sparking in the slight breeze. Garrett shivered and shook his head. Anders had opened the bloody window. So much for his complaints about the cold.

 

“There you are.” Garrett stopped in the middle of the room, a little more than an arm's length away.

 

Anders's shoulders were rigid, his entire posture radiating tension. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and brittle. “Here I am.”

 

Several long seconds passed in silence. Garrett shivered again. “Are you okay?” he finally asked, even though he already knew the answer.

 

“I-- I don't know.” Anders shook his head, silent again, then suddenly slammed his fist against the stone windowsill. “He was _my_ friend! And Jowan just sweeps in and-- and—and now Justice is _gone_ and I... fuck, I don't know.”

 

Garrett swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “So you were going to do it,” he said, heart sinking. He'd tried, he'd tried so damn hard to make Anders see that he didn't have to, that they'd be safe...

 

“No. Maybe. I don't _know_. I hadn't decided, but now I-- I didn't get to make a choice. They took it away from me.” Anders hissed out a bitter breath. “I just-- We were  friends.”

 

Garrett opened his eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said, taking a step forward.

 

“No you're not, don't fucking lie to me,” Anders snapped, turning his head enough to look back over his shoulder.

 

“I'm sorry that he, you know, left like that. I know he meant a lot to you.”

 

Anders snorted and turned back to the window. “Yeah.”

 

Garrett hesitated, chewing on his lip, then continued. “I—I'm not sorry that you didn't do it, though.” He'd never been terribly good at keeping his opinions to himself, after all. “It would've killed me to lose you like that.”

 

“You wouldn't have--” Anders cut himself off with a frustrated growl. “Andraste's flaming sword, I don't even know why I'm arguing. It doesn't matter.”

 

“You saw what happened to Jowan,” Garrett said. “He was different. And he _left_ , Anders. Who's to say the same thing wouldn't have happened to you?”

 

Anders spun around, finally looking at him, jaw clenched and hands balled into fists at his sides. “Okay, fine, you're right,” he snarled, “it was a stupid idea and I'm an idiot for even considering it, is that what you want to hear?”

 

Garrett held up his hands. “I'm not trying to start a fight,” he said.

 

Anders shook his head and looked away. “Then maybe you should go somewhere else, 'cause I'm looking for one.”

 

Fine. Maybe giving him space was a better idea, for now. And he'd come down eventually. “Okay. I'll be at home if you... when you want to talk. Or... whatever.” Anders just nodded, once, his attention still locked on the floor somewhere to Garrett's right. Garrett sighed. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right, love.” Oh, shit. And he'd been so careful, too. Garrett tried not to visibly cringe and started to turn towards the door. Maybe Anders would just--

 

“What?”

 

No such luck. Garrett looked back at Anders, who'd gone very still, his eyes wide with shock. “I said I wanted to--”

 

Anders dragged his gaze from the floor up to Garrett's face. “No. The other thing. The last thing. You used a very specific word there.”

 

This was going about as badly as Garrett had feared. Damn it all. “Love?”

 

Anders flinched. “Why did you-- why'd you say that?”

 

“Because,” Garrett said, shoulders slumped, “I love you.” This wasn’t how he’d wanted to tell him. Sometime better, somewhere safer, where Anders wouldn’t be quite so terrified of the concept, maybe… but not like this.

 

The room was silent for a few agonized, tortured seconds. “What do you mean?” Anders finally asked.

 

“What do I--” Garrett shook his head, frowning. “I mean that I love you, Anders, what--”

 

Anders shook his head frantically, his arms wrapped around himself. “No, but what does that mean to _you?_ ”

 

“I-I don't...” Garrett trailed off. “It means I care about you, you make me happy... it's being in love, Anders, I don't know what else to say.”

 

“No, see, this is important, because we don't-- in the Circle, we-- mages don't...” Anders shook his head again, gaze dancing around the small room.

 

“Fall in love?” Garrett finished. Anders didn't correct him. “Anders, I'm pretty sure my father was in love with my mother. Surana's in love with Zevran, Beth's in love with Nathaniel...” Anders just tightened his arms around himself and shook his head. He looked as panicked and hunted as when Garrett brought him news about the Templars. Garrett took a deep breath, then stepped forward and placed his hands on Anders's shoulders. Anders didn't try to pull away. That was something, at least. “What's this about?”

 

Anders shrugged, shoulders tense under Garrett's hands, his gaze landing everywhere but Garrett's face. “It's too dangerous,” he said. “It's a line you don't ever, ever cross, because if you do, it-- it gives the Templars too much power if there's something you can't stand to lose.”

 

“Anders.” Garrett shifted his head slightly and caught the other man's eyes. “This isn't the Circle. You're not going to lose me.” Anders's desire to merge with Justice, to have the strength to fight the Templars, suddenly made a horrible kind of sense. That the Chantry had done this to him, left him terrified of loving someone and of being loved, was enough to make Garrett want to burn the Grand Cathedral to the ground.

 

“You don't know that,” Anders said, shaking his head in frustration. “You can't know.”

 

Garrett pulled Anders into an embrace, holding him as close as Anders's folded arms between them would allow. “You're not going to lose me.”

 

“Don't say that.” Anders slowly lowered his arms and wound them around Garrett's waist, his face buried in Garrett's neck. “Don't promise me that, because then when you're gone I'll have to hate you for breaking your promise and I don't want to hate you, Garrett.”

 

He sounded on the verge of tears, and Garrett tightened his arms around him. “You're not going to lose me,” he repeated.

 

Anders let out a choked laugh. “You don't listen very well, do you.”

 

“Only when it's to my advantage.”

 

“I've noticed.”

 

Garrett exhaled heavily and ran his hand up and down Anders's back. “I love you,” he said, brushing a kiss to Anders's temple. He heard Anders swallow hard and forced himself to continue. “You can... do what you want with that. If ignoring it makes you feel better, fine. But that's not going to stop it from being true.” He started to step back. Anders probably still needed space, now that he'd thrown this into the mix, too. Maker, but he had awful timing.

 

Anders made a low noise in the back of his throat and tightened his grip on Garrett, his hands fisted in the back of his shirt. “No, you can't-- I need you to tell me what that means to you. Like, what does it really, really mean, how does it feel, because I don't... I always stopped myself, Garrett, and I didn't stop with you and now I don't...”

 

Garrett closed his eyes, heart aching, and pressed his lips to Anders's hair. Part of him was flattered, that he'd been the one to push through Anders's defenses, but he was mostly horrified that Anders had spent half his life too afraid of getting hurt to let himself love someone. That no one, probably, had ever told Anders that they loved him. “You know you're asking for something fairly difficult here.”

 

“It's important.” Anders's voice was muffled, his words spoken into Garrett's skin.

 

“I know.” Garrett sighed, thinking. He knew he loved Anders, but actually putting what it meant into words... “I can't imagine my life without you,” he started, speaking quietly, still rubbing his hand in circles across Anders's back. “Whenever I think about the future, you're there with me. Even when you're being absolutely infuriating--” Anders chuckled weakly at that, “I still want you to stay. You make me happy. I-I'd do anything to keep you safe. Waking up with you every morning feels _right_.”

 

Anders had relaxed slowly as Garrett spoke. “That's it?” he asked.

 

“Not even close.” Garrett smirked. “But it's a start.”

 

“Oh.” Anders paused for a moment. “I, um. Then I... Iloveyoutoo.”

 

Garrett grinned in relief. He’d sort of guessed, from the way Anders was talking, but to actually hear it… He kissed Anders, still smiling, and brushed their noses together briefly. “Let's go back downstairs. I'm freezing.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Anders shook his head. “Sorry. I'm still sort of...” He made a swirling gesture near the side of his head.

 

“It's okay. C'mon.” Garrett took Anders's hand, lacing their fingers together, and led them back downstairs.


	11. Epilogue

_3 Cloudreach 9:33 Dragon_

It was a gorgeous spring day at Vigil's Keep, the first really warm one of the year. Technically, Anders had things to do, potions to brew, poultices to assemble, but he'd taken one look at the sunshine outside and skipped off to the practice field without a single regret. He was sprawled out on one of the benches, eyes closed, hands tucked behind his head, thoughts wandering.

They hadn't heard anything from Jowan since he'd left with Justice in his head. Nor had they heard of a crazed abomination devouring small villages, so there was at least the reassurance that they hadn't unleashed a terrible evil on the world. Anders still missed Justice, missed having someone who really understood what he'd been through... but at least now the spirit was out there somewhere, fighting the good fight. At least, he told himself Justice was still alive. It had never really been clear how much of the spirit was left after merging with Jowan. He suspected he'd never know.

Anders sighed quietly. There still wasn't much he could do about the Templars, other than avoid them and pray they'd stay away until Neria came back. She'd left about a week after Jowan and headed for the capitol, planning to petition Anora for official sanction of all the mages at Vigil's Keep, apostate or not. It wasn't a sure thing, and even if she got the royal decree, it might not be enough to hold off the Chantry forever. But it would at least give them pause. It would buy them time to figure out something else. Or at least get ready to run to Rivain.

“You're like a cat.”

Anders smiled without opening his eyes. “Hi, Garrett.”

“Hi.” 

The faint glow of sunlight on his eyelids vanished, and Anders opened his eyes to see Garrett leaning over him, shadowing his face. “Move over, you're hogging the whole bench.”

“I wasn't expecting to have to share,” he grumbled without rancor and sat up. Garrett dropped onto the bench, and Anders immediately laid back down, his head in Garrett's lap. “There.”

Garrett chuckled and stretched his legs out in front of him. “What're you doing out here?”

“Napping in the sun. What'd it look like?”

“Well. Exactly that, actually.” Garrett idly ran his fingers through Anders's hair; Anders hummed in contentment and closed his eyes. “Did you just purr?”

“Maybe.”

“I think you might be taking the cat-person thing a bit too far, love.”

Anders smirked. It wasn't really frightening, hearing that word from Garrett, not anymore. It was still strange to say it himself, to smile against Garrett's skin as they laid together in bed and whisper 'love you, too.' He still worried about the Templars, obviously, would probably worry about them until the day he died. But they weren't going to come and drag Garrett away just because Anders loved him. They'd drag him away for countless other reasons, so it wasn't really that much of a comfort... but somehow, it made a difference.

“What'd you come out here for?” Anders asked, turning his face in towards Garrett's palm.

“Looking for you, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Surana and Zevran are back.”

“Oh.” Anders opened his eyes and peered up at Garrett. “Zevran caught up with her, then?”

“He must've.” Zevran had turned up at the keep about two weeks ago, fresh off the boat from Antiva and looking for, as he put it, 'the sweet, sweet love of my dear Warden.' He was a bit nonplussed to learn that she was gone and wouldn't be back anytime soon, and set off for Denerim the following day. 

Anders heaved a sigh. “Should we go find them?”

“Probably.” Garrett didn't move. “But it's a really nice day.”

“True.”

“They'll find us eventually.”

“Yeah.” Anders smiled and closed his eyes again. “Did you find out how things went with the queen?”

“No. She was talking with Varel and just sort of shouted at me to go find you.”

Anders chuckled. “Well, strictly speaking, you followed orders,” he pointed out. “You did find me.”

Garrett traced his thumb over Anders's cheekbone. “True.”

They fell into an easy silence, Anders dangling one arm off the bench, his fingers brushing against the grass. He was half-asleep when he heard footsteps approaching. “This isn't exactly what I meant when I told you to find Anders, Hawke,” Neria said.

“Yeah, well... he's persuasive.”

“Don't blame this on me,” Anders said. “You sat down. In fact, you made me _move_ so you could sit down.”

Zevran laughed. “I cannot entirely fault him,” he said. “I too might be tempted by the prospect of having your pretty head in my lap.”

Anders opened his eyes and sighed happily. “Oh, Zevran, I missed you.”

Neria snorted. “Stop flirting, you two,” she said. “Hawke's going to have a fit.” She came around the bench and poked Anders's boot. “Sit up, I've got a present for you.”

“Ooh, did you bring me something shiny from the big city?” He sat up and swung his feet to the ground, rolling his shoulders back to stretch them.

Neria chuckled and fished around in her pocket. “It's definitely shiny,” she said, pulling out a cloth-wrapped package, no larger than her palm. “Especially now.”

Anders frowned and unwrapped the cloth, cupping the bundle in one hand. A faint reddish glow shone through the fabric, and his heart stopped for a moment when he pulled aside the last layer. A small glass vial lay in the palm of his hand, the liquid inside glowing bright. His phylactery.

*

Garrett frowned, peering at the glowing vial. Anders looked like he'd just been smacked upside the head with a board. “Is that...?”

“Yeah.” Surana shrugged. “Zevran was bored while I was meeting with Anora. So he decided the best course of action was to break into the Chantry's vault and knick both our phylacteries.”

Anders looked up and blinked at the assassin. “You-- how!?”

“Oh, it took several days of scouting, some bribes, some blackmail, a few well-placed sleeping poisons...” Zevran shrugged. “I don't handle boredom well, it seems.”

Anders made a faint 'huh' sort of noise and went back to staring at the phylactery. Garrett couldn't tell if his expression of shock was a happy or devastated one. “What'd the queen say?” Garrett asked, glancing up at Surana.

“Well, the good news is, I have a fancy decree that says that all mages residing at Vigil's Keep are under my protection and guidance.” She smiled. “We're in the clear. The Chantry can't really touch us.”

Garrett closed his eyes for a moment and let out a slow breath. He felt lighter, somehow, like a weight had been taken off his shoulders. They were safe. Really and truly safe, all of them, him and Beth and Anders. They'd finally found a place beyond the Templars' reach. A wave of longing swept over him, leaving his eyes stinging; he wished that his parents could have seen this. Could have lived here and known this kind of safety and freedom, too.

“Unfortunately,” Surana continued, “Anora's decree came at a cost. I get the mages at the Keep instead of the mages at the Circle.” She shook her head. “Anora's dropping her campaign to get the Chantry to release Kinloch Hold from Chantry control. Not that there was much of a campaign to begin with, but... I'd hoped...” She sighed and shook her head. “She promised to do it, in front of the whole Landsmeet,” she said. “I'd really hoped that maybe we could...”

“It's a start,” Garrett said. “I mean-- it's an officially sanctioned group of free mages. So long as none of us turns into abominations, this could... this could really stand for something.” Maybe show the Chantry that mages could be trusted to live on their own. 

Anders chuckled and shook his head. “You sound like Justice,” he said. Garrett grimaced. “Less self-righteous, but just about as optimistic.”

Garrett scrunched up his nose. “It's all the sunshine and good news. It's going to my head.”

Surana laughed. “Well,” she began, “we're going back inside for lunch. We rode all morning to get back here, and I'm starving.”

“Mm. I'm hungry too, mi amor,” Zevran said, sliding an arm around Surana's waist as they turned back towards the keep.

“Food first.”

“I do not understand your priorities.”

Their voices faded, and Garrett looked back at Anders. He held up the vial and stared at it, magic and sunlight setting the blood inside aglow. “It's the first thing they do when they bring you to the tower, you know,” he said. “Don't tell you what's going on, where you are, why you're there, they just grab your arm and open up a vein.” He shook his head. “Fourteen years they've held this over my head and now...” Anders glanced at Garrett with a sideways smile. “You know that if those two ever ask me to join them in a threesome I'm morally obligated to agree.”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “I don't think that's going to happen.”

“But if it does. Moral obligation.” He looked back at the vial and laughed. “If nothing else I'll keep them in steady supply of rejuvenation potions.”

“I'm sure that'll be thanks enough.” Garrett slid closer and placed his hand on the back of Anders's neck, lightly stroking his thumb back and forth. “You gonna break it or something?”

Anders shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, it just... it seems so anti-climactic, you know? Dropping it on the ground and walking off.”

Garrett frowned, thinking. “So... you wanna, like, throw it off a cliff or something?”

“Oh, I was thinking out of a tower, but off a cliff is so much better,” Anders said. “Into a chasm of spiky rocks.”

“And maybe follow it up with a fireball,” Garrett suggested with a grin.

“Nice. You're good at this.”

“Not the only thing I'm good at.” Garrett waggled his eyebrows and leaned in, his hand snaking over Anders's shoulder and down to his chest.

Anders squeaked and jumped a bit. The vial slipped from his fingers and hit the ground, cracking against the packed dirt. “So much for a climax,” Garrett muttered, and Anders burst into giggles, burying his face in Garrett's shoulder. Garrett wrapped his arm around Anders's shoulders and dragged him closer.

“Are you--” Anders started, then cut himself off with another round of choked snickering. “Are you suggesting that we can just cuddle instead?”

Garrett rolled his eyes, but didn't respond. He just let Anders laugh into his shoulder and pretended not to notice the twin damp spots appearing on his shirt. Eventually, Anders calmed down, still giggling a bit, and casually wiped at his eyes. “Let's go,” he said. “Lunch sounds good.”

“You and your Warden appetite.” Garrett stood and offered Anders a hand up.

“And my Warden stamina,” Anders pointed out as he got to his feet. “Don't forget that.”

“How could I?” Anders just grinned and took half a step back, deliberately crunching the vial under his heel. Garrett smiled and took his hand, lacing their fingers together. “C'mon. Let's find you food.”

“And then bed,” Anders decided. “I haven't had my fill of laying around in sunbeams.”

Garrett nodded. “Sounds perfect,” he agreed, and they walked back to the Keep, hand in hand.


End file.
